


Having Lost You

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, Inspired by Fanfiction, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7116925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "And what kind of madness is it, anyway, to be in love with something constitutionally unable of loving you back?</i>
</p><p> </p><p><i>Are you sure— one would like to ask— that it cannot love you back?” (From Bluets, by Maggie Nelson.) </i> </p><p>--- </p><p>Stiles and Lydia are soulmates. </p><p>But.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [maybe someday we'll get it right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255515) by [korilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/korilove/pseuds/korilove). 



> Oh my goodness. I cannot believe I'm about to say this, but-- guys. I wrote an AU fic for Stydia. This is literally the first time I've done a full-length AU. I feel strange. 
> 
> This fic was written because of the fic [ maybe someday we'll get it right](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4255515) by korilove, which absolutely broke my heart and was totally infuriating. But this universe, in particular, stabbed me in the gut. This fic was written about a year ago and I truly haven't been able to shake the idea for this fic. I asked Cori for permission to write this, and she was kind enough to say yes, but I want y'all to know that this wasn't her original intent as an author and this is totally just a fanfic of a fanfic. 
> 
> (Having Lost You immediately follows the events of universe II: circumstances, if you'd like to refresh yourself on what happened before this fic begins.) 
> 
> I'd also like to say that all of these parts will be preceded and followed by quotes from one of my favorite books of all time, [Bluets, written by Maggie Nelson.](http://www.amazon.com/Bluets-Maggie-Nelson/dp/1933517409/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1465249006&sr=8-1&keywords=bluets+by+maggie+nelson) The title also comes from it, and the tone of this fic is my little homage to Bluets, albeit with a more Stiles-like sense of humor. The quotes all fit Stiles' mindset over the course of the story. I picked them all for a reason. 
> 
> Finally, I want to tell you guys that I absolutely do not condone the behavior of Stiles and Lydia in this fic. It's really fun to throw them into different universes and play with how they'd respond to their environment, but by no means am I implying that their actions are moral. This is me, as a stydia fanfic author, having fun. That's it.

" _71\. I have been trying, for some time now, to find a dignity in loneliness. I have been finding this hard to do._

_72\. It is easier, of course, to find dignity in solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem."_

* * *

 

The phone in Stiles' hand is vibrating again.

He checks the screen, sees the name that's flashing there, and has to hold back a small groan at the fourth call from his partner. Because, seriously, it's not his fault that there'd been traffic. It's not his fault that there's a crazy long line at Espresso.

"You're the one that _wanted_ the coffee," he says, voice annoyed as he presses the phone against his ear. "Seriously, I'll be back as soon as I can. Just calm down."

"You left me with _all_ of the paperwork."

"You always end up doing it anyways," he points out, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "Paperwork is the reason you became a cop."

The woman in front of him in line lets out a small scoffing noise, then looks up from her phone on instinct, tilting her head back so that she can glance at him. Stiles watches as she takes notice of him, then does a double take and turns around, checking him one more time before she twists back around completely.

Nice. He's still got it.

She's pretty, he decides as Lauren goes on about how paperwork is _not_ why she became a cop and she needs coffee more than she has ever needed anything in her entire life. The woman's got gorgeous red hair that falls down her back, and she's wearing a workout outfit that looks crisp and expensive against her small, curvy body. As Stiles listens to Lauren go on about how long he's taking, he lets his eyes drift down to her perky ass and the way her black workout pants hug it.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Oh yeah," he replies dryly. "Attentively."

As her back moves in time with the one small laugh that she emits, the woman pushes hair behind her ear on one side and he sees a small diamond stud in her ear, sparkling simply against the lobe.

"Just get back here, Stiles," Lauren says, clearly annoyed, and then she hangs up the phone.

Lovely girl.

"Sorry you had to hear that," says Stiles warmly, hoping that the redheaded woman knows that he's talking to her. "My partner can be kind of a dick."

"Husband?" the woman asks lightly.

Stiles lets out a low laugh.

"I wish. No, cop partner. I'm a cop."

She turns her head to the side so that he can see her profile.

"I know."

Stiles frowns.

"You… know? H-how do you—?"

"Well, first off, the uniform," she points out, looking amused. "But also… you pulled me over."

She hasn't turned around yet, so he can't see her whole face, but his eyes begin to skate over her features, trying to place them.

"Did I give you a ticket?" he asks, amused.

"You let me off," she says. "Horrible decision, really. I was going twenty over."

Stiles winces.

"Shit. I must have thought you were hot."

The woman pauses, then turns all the way around so that he can see her.

"Was that it?" she inquires, smirk drifting across her lips as she looks up at him.

Oh god. It's… _wait_.

"You were… the night that my… uh, I… you?"

Her smirk softens, turning into a smaller smile.

"So you noticed."

"Not until later that night. It _was_ you?"

She hesitates for a moment, then moves her arm from behind her back and holds it up to him, her fist clenched. There's a fancy tennis bracelet wrapped around her tiny wrist, expensive, matching the earrings. Stiles grasps her wrist eagerly, eyes skating over the mark that is painted onto her skin, deep black against her flesh. His eyes devour it; devour the delicate lines and the little dots and every single piece of the chaos that matches the design that's on his hip. When he slides his eyes over to hers, she's looking at him calmly and intently, like this moment isn't a _hurricane_.

"Hi," she says, a small smile on her lips. "I'm Lydia."

Lydia. _Lydia_. His soul mate's name is Lydia.

"Stiles," he says eagerly. "My mark is on my hip, or I'd show it to you, but… I'm Stiles."

"Stiles what?"

"Stiles Stilinski."

She extends her hand to him, shaking it austerely.

"Lydia Whittemore."

He feels antsy as she lets go of his hand, pulling hers back. His eyes haven't left her face in a while, he thinks. He's just soaking her in, consuming the details of the woman who is his soul mate. He has been waiting his whole life to meet her, to finally have her in front of him, and she's standing here and he can feel something about his body clicking into place. His skin suddenly feels like it fits more. Stiles feels _right._

"Can I buy you a coffee, Lydia Whittemore?"

"I'm not sure you have time," she notes, eyes flicking towards his phone. "Your partner seemed pretty upset."

"Amazingly enough, she is the least significant thing on my mind in this moment."

"Hmm." Lydia looks amused.

"Have coffee with me," Stiles says hopefully. He needs to know her. He needs to know everything about this woman. He needs to spend hours staring into her captivating eyes, the way they dance mischievously, the way they dart all over his face.

"I can't," says Lydia, shaking her head. "I have… things to do."

"Like what?"

Stiles is probably coming across desperate. He probably doesn't care. But Lydia laughs, looking a bit surprised. It's caught in her eyes— how unsettled she is about the eagerness in his question.

"Um, grocery shopping?" she says, frowning. "Dry cleaning?"

"Hot," replies Stiles, and Lydia blinks, laughing again as she looks to the side.

"You can go in front of me, though," she says. "It sounds like you're in more of a rush than I am."

"Nah, that's okay."

"I insist."

She takes a step back, allowing him to walk in front of her, and he considers this before he walks up to the counter and smiles at the barista.

"Hi," he says. "Two black coffees, and… whatever she's having."

Lydia raises her eyebrows at him.

"A medium iced with skim and two pumps of caramel," she says. "Thanks," she adds to Stiles.

Stiles pays, and the two of them move over to wait for their coffee. He's not sure what to do.

"Well. It was… fuckin' crazy to meet you. Again."

"Likewise," replies Lydia smoothly.

"And I think you should probably give me your number." Her smile slips slightly. Stiles begins to worry. "What?"

"I'm… married."

He feels like he's been doused in ice. The illusion breaks, and Lydia isn't looking at him anymore. Her eyes are on her French tip nails, and when Stiles follows them, he sees the enormous ring glinting on her finger.

"Oh," is what he says. What he means is _You didn't wait for me_. She winces. He knows she hears it.

"I'm sorry," she says gently. "I really am."

"Yeah, no," he replies, an aching smile on his face. "Don't be. It's okay." His smile is strained, even though his voice is casual.

"It is," Lydia says, nodding. "But it was wonderful to meet you anyways."

"Right," he responds. They're silent until their coffees show up on the counter, and then they grab them. "Well, yeah, I gotta go."

"Thank you for the coffee," she says again.

They slowly walk out to their cars, Stiles holding the door open for Lydia, his hand on her back as they walk across the threshold. Lydia strolls over to her mini cooper, unlocking it and opening the door.

He almost lets her walk away. But he can't. He _can't_.

"Hey," Stiles calls out for her. "Have dinner with me."

Lydia's lips quirk up.

"What?"

"Go out to dinner with me."

"I told you I'm married."

"As friends," Stiles says. "I mean… I dunno… aren't you kinda curious? Like, why are we soul mates? What makes us… fit?" Lydia looks hesitant, so Stiles barrels through. "Maybe if I get to know you, I can look for certain outstanding qualities in somebody else and have a fantastic marriage with second best."

The guilt card works. She steels herself, then nods in agreement.

"Okay, Stiles."

"Okay?"

"You're buying."

"Don't order the steak."

Lydia shakes her head.

"I'm ordering the steak."

"How about The Grove?"

"Oh. Fancy."

His eyes drift down to the size of the rock on her finger.

"Yeah, well."

"Tomorrow at eight?" Lydia asks, and Stiles grins.

"Seeya then, soulmate."

He gets into his car and drives away, trying to ignore the expression on her face from him calling her 'soulmate.'

On the seat next to him, his cellphone vibrates commandingly, another call from Lauren. Like nothing's changed. And maybe that's because nothing has. Nothing's changed at all.

* * *

"A PhD? You have a fucking PhD?"

Lydia raises her eyebrows challengingly at the look on his face, taking a sip of white wine as she allows him to process this piece of information.

"Is there a problem?"

"Uh, yeah. You have a PhD," he says emphatically. "Tell me it's in something stupid. Like sociology."

"It's in biochemistry, and I also have a masters in mathematics."

"Jesus Christ. You… you've seen how pretty you are, right? You can't be that pretty _and_ that smart. It's unfair to the rest of us."

"I didn't make the rules," Lydia shrugs.

"Besides, when the hell did you have time for that?"

"Before I had a kid."

"Oh, naturally. Naturally you got that all done _before_ the childbearing years."

"Andrew's easy, luckily," Lydia concedes. "I actually do research at home now. I work while he's at school."

"What's your research about?"

He listens carefully as she speaks, but he also watches just as carefully. She is enthusiastic— to say she is would be an underestimation, really. Her eyes shine excitedly as she begins to talk about her research, and as she speaks, some of the hair from her bun escapes, slipping down around her wine-flushed cheeks. She's in a small navy colored wrap dress that hugs her body tightly, and her nude colored heels had made her far taller than the sneakers that she'd been wearing the day he met her in the coffee shop.

Stiles watches her and wonders which Lydia is the more accurate one.

"Sounds fascinating," he says admiringly. "Way more interesting than pulling people over at the side of the road and letting them out of a ticket."

"I think that's a given," says Lydia. "But my job comes with fewer donuts."

Stiles groans, knocking his head back.

"Oh, come on. I hate that joke. It's so stupid."

"Right, but telling me to dance when I got my food so that I would be having the 'steak and shake' isn't juvenile at all."

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Stiles sniffly. "I have a very sophisticated sense of humor." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Hey, Lydia," he whispers, "why did the chicken cross the road?"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, and Stiles grins as he takes a sip from the scotch sitting on the table in front of him. He hates scotch, but Lydia definitely doesn't need to know that. He's trying to come across manly, here.

"Why did you become a cop anyways?" she asks seriously, then tacks on an "I mean, if not for the doughnuts" at the end.

"My dad was the sheriff of our town and I was too lazy to find my own profession," Stiles tells her honestly. "Also, Die Hard."

"Why are _all_ men obsessed with that movie?"

"Have you seen that movie?"

"I have. And, honestly, I prefer… most other movies."

"Wow. Harsh critique from the PhD."

"You have to try harder than Die Hard to get my good opinion," she comments wryly, taking a bite of steak.

"Okay, what does have your good opinion?" he asks. She starts to talk, and Stiles holds a hand up. "And, wait, I want to know what your favorite movie was before you got your snobby PhD. I want to know what snob-less Lydia thought about cinema."

"Arguably, I was even more snobby in high school than I am now."

"What happened?"

She smiles a little.

"College kicked me where it hurt and I got over myself."

"If I were you, I would never get over myself."

He's starting to wonder if he's going to be able to get over her as it is. Because, jesus, this woman is incredible. And he doesn't think it's the candle sitting on the table between the two of them. He thinks it's something else— an energy that jumps back and forth between himself and Lydia. Stiles wonders if she notices it too, but Lydia seems unaffected as she takes another sip of wine.

"To answer your question: The Notebook."

"Ew. Are you kidding?"

"Don't lie. You cried."

"I mean, hell fuckin' yes I did. But not as hard as I cry when I watch Die Hard."

"What part of Die Hard did you—?"

"Anything else?"

She squints, thinking.

"Oh, 2005 Pride and Prejudice. I have a thing for rain kissing now."

"So you're a mathematician and rocket scientist who has a penchant for chick flicks," Stiles surmises.

"Rocket scientist? Who said anything about rocket science?"

"Oh, I'm just assuming you have a degree in that too."

She chortles, then claps a hand over her mouth in surprise at the sound. Stiles' mouth opens in a wide laugh, his smile covering his face as he slow claps for her.

"You'll catch a fly," Lydia says primly, spearing a potato and popping it gracefully into her mouth. "And let me guess who you were in high school."

He gestures towards her with an inviting hand.

"Be my guest."

"I'm going to go with 'cheeky asshole who fucked a lot and got high a lot and was unmoved to get any work done despite the fact that he was intelligent enough to do so.'"

"Oho," Stiles says happily. "Oho, you are _so_ wrong."

"I am?"

"Oh you _are_. Damn, I finally found something you aren't good at and it only took—" He checks his watch— "Three hours."

"And what, pray tell, was I wrong about?"

Stiles takes a dramatic sip of his drink. Lydia flashes him a look of annoyance, but there's still a smile in her eyes.

"I got laid _zero times_ in high school."

She blinks.

"Really? That's what I was wrong about?"

"Oh yeah. I had this… god, this _horrible_ buzz cut when I was younger. And even when I finally realized that it looked like shit and grew it out, it was too late. They'd all known me since kindergarten and nobody was interested."

"That's just rotten luck."

"College was… a beautiful time of discovery."

"I can only assume."

"And what about you? Got any fun college stories for the likes of me?"

"Not the kind you're thinking about, but I'd love to hear yours."

"Aw. That's too bad."

"Well, I wasn't single when I went to college."

"At all?"

Lydia shakes her head.

"I married my high school sweetheart."

He lets out a low whistle.

"Wow. Hard to beat that even with 'soulmate,'" Stiles admits. "Hey, what did he say about your mark?"

"I showed it to him when I got home that night," Lydia says. "And, well, I told him I didn't know his name or talk to him. Which wasn't a lie at the time."

"And now?"

Her eyes harden slightly.

"And now he thinks I'm out with a friend," she replies. He waits for her to say 'which, technically, I am.' Because, technically, she is. But Lydia struggles for a moment, then closes her mouth and doesn't say anything else, instead choosing to take a longer drag from her glass of wine.

Well. At least they're not lying to each other. That's kind of nice.

"So," Stiles says, all business now. "Least favorite holiday, favorite color, and um… favorite thing about me."

"Wow, such deep questions," Lydia replies mockingly.

"Well, you know me." Stiles shrugs. "I go deep."

Whoops.

He totally didn't mean for that one to slip out.

Except Lydia is smiling around her wine glass, her cheeks now red for a totally different reason. And okay. Maybe he did mean for it to slip out. Just a little bit. It doesn't mean anything, right?

It's fine. They're just soulmates.

Just soulmates.

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay with me borrowing it?"

"Yes Lydia," Stiles says, sounding slightly annoyed even though he doesn't feel that way at all. "That's why I talked it up through dinner. That's why I said 'hey, Lydia, do you want to come over and borrow my copy.'"

"I'm just making sure," she says defensively, reaching for the book. Stiles holds it out of her grasp.

"Wait. You're not one of those people who borrows the book and never brings it back, right? You're not one of those guys."

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Of course not."

"Oh, I'm relieved," he says, handing it to her. "Because I'm definitely one of those guys and there can't be two of us in this one horse town."

He watches her walk over to the door, tucking the book in her purse as she does.

"Tonight was fun," she comments, opening the door and shrugging on her coat. She turns around to look at Stiles, who is looking down at her with eyes that he _knows_ are too soft, but he just can't help it.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice rough. "It was… kind of incredible to know that the universe thinks so highly of me that it would stick me with _you_."

She licks her bottom lip, peering up at him for a longer moment than is strictly necessary. He wonders what she thinks of him, suddenly. If she thinks he's attractive too. Stiles knows that sometimes he grows on people, but this woman who is supposed to be his soulmate… she is _beautiful_. She is riveting in a way that almost makes him anxious, because he wants to watch her lips move forever; wants to watch the sun come up in her eyes. And he is not that. He is not what she is.

"Well, I appreciate the loan," Lydia says. "I'll get it back to you as soon as I can."

"Yeah, no, don't worry about that," Stiles says, waving a hand dismissively. His voice is too loud to correct for the quiet intimacy of hers. "You have a kid. I can't expect you to just sit down and read it in a few hours."

He wonders what it would have been like for her to read this book to _their_ kid. Read it out loud. In a small room in their apartment, Lydia on a rocking chair, the kid in a tiny little bed, covers pulled tight under her chin.

For a moment, he aches for intimacy. Lydia breaks their eye contact, looking down at the floor outside of his apartment.

"I _will_ read it, though," she says resolutely, her voice bare. "I promise."

"Thank you." His voice is genuine. He taps her purse where the book sits. "I don't think I could walk around this earth knowing that my soulmate hadn't read that."

Her eyes are _startled_ , just as they have been every single time he's said that word out loud. They dance over Stiles' face, lingering too long on his mouth, and his entire body sets on edge. He can feel the kiss crawling up his back even before Lydia slams her mouth against his, body pressed against him tight.

Stiles isn't surprised, so he doesn't even think about it. He just backs them up into the apartment, letting Lydia slam the door behind herself before she throws the purse to the side and attacks his mouth again, her fingers curling desperately around his cheeks. Stiles' hands grip her ass tightly, pulling her hips harder against his body as he kisses her back ferociously. Lydia pushes her coat to the ground and walks him deeper into his apartment, her hands finding his hair as soon as they hit a wall.

She tugs a little too hard, bringing him down to her, and Stiles acts on instinct, burying his lips in the warm, lightly perfumed skin on her neck. He can hear a small, high-pitched whine in the back of her throat as he runs his lips lightly over the skin, nudging it with his nose before finally trailing his lips down to her collarbone and dragging them all the way back up to her earlobe.

"Lydia," he pants into her, lips against her skin. "Please."

"What?" she breathes into the air as his hand slides up from her hip to her breast, squeezing it lightly.

"Lemme make you come," he whispers in her ear. She shudders against him. "Just once, please? Please? I want to see it so bad. _Please_."

"Yes," she agrees as he nuzzles into her neck, waiting for her response. His responding moan when he hears that makes her smile, but she doesn't comment on it. "Where?"

He grabs her hand in his and leads her over to the couch, dropping onto it with her and going back to devouring her mouth. If Lydia had expected him to get her off right away, she is absolutely wrong, because he is taking his time with this. He kisses her, and kisses her, and _kisses_ her, pulling her hair out of its bun until it's floating all around her. She looks younger now, he thinks as he continues to kiss her breathlessly. Lydia's legs are wrapped around his hips, lightly moving with his body, and when she lets out a sound that rockets across his apartment, Stiles can't stop himself from rucking up her dress and shoving his hand into her panties.

"Shit," he grunts, feeling her. "Oh god, Lydia."

She squirms against his unmoving hand until he finally takes pity on her and touches her in earnest. He wants to crawl between her thighs and bury his face there, but if he has once chance, he wants to watch her the whole time. Instead, he buries his fingers inside of her and strokes her until she's a shaking mess around him, her face red as she watches him watching her. Lydia's eyes stay on his until the last minute, until she squeezes them shut and throws her head back as she comes around his fingers.

For several moments, Lydia lies there, catching her breath. Stiles continues to watch her, his heart hammering in his chest as Lydia comes down. Her eyes skate curiously over his face, her mouth slightly open, as she watches him.

"You okay?" asks Stiles lowly. And something seems to settle inside of Lydia. She nods, pushes him off of her, and stands up, showing him the back of her dress, where there's a long zipper, going down to her ass. "Lydia?"

"Take it off, Stiles."

"Are you—?"

"Stiles." Her voice is so desperate that he nods, even though she can't see it, and he unzips the dress slowly, revealing a black bra and lacy pink underwear that clings enticingly to her asscheeks. He stares until she turns around. "I need you to take your pants off," Lydia says, voice controlled as she looks down at the awe on his face. "Can you do that for me, Stiles?"

He nods hurriedly, tugging his wallet from his back pocket and tugging out a condom before he pulls off the pants. At the last minute, he wonders if he has horribly, humiliatingly misread the situation, but then Lydia snatches the foil packet from his hand and rips it open, spurring Stiles into pulling off his pants and boxer-briefs.

"How do you—?" he starts to say, but Lydia walks closer to him, straddling him before she shoves her pink panties to the side with her manicured fingers and sinks down onto him. Her hands are on either side of him as she grips the couch and begins grinding up and down on him, shaking her hair over her shoulders as she moves. "Oh, _fuck_ ," he says, tilting his head up to look at her. She feels hot and tight as she clenches around him, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she registers the reverence in his expression.

Lydia stoops down to tug his bottom lip into her mouth and drag it back towards her, scraping her teeth against it. Then she cocks her eyebrow at him and pushes up and down faster on her knees, her toes curling as she throws her head back. Stiles isn't sure if he wants her lips or her breasts more, so he ends up shoving down one of the cups of her black bra and tugging her nipple into his mouth, humming desperately against it as he gets closer and closer to coming.

She takes a moment to pull off her bra when she sees that, letting him do what he wants with her breasts, and it's all a blur until he's suddenly coming so hard and so fast, shouting it into her skin.

His mouth is open against her as she strokes his hair, giving him a few moments as he softens inside of her. Then Lydia drags his head back to give him one final kiss on the lips and stands up, her fingers lingering on his cheek as she roots around on the floor for her bra. He's still staring as she pulls on her dress, then sits down on the couch next to him, waiting for him to zip it up. He does with shaking hands, pressing a kiss to her back before he gets the zipper all the way. Lydia turns around and kisses his cheek before she gets off the couch and picks up her purse.

"Bye, Stiles," she says, looking over at him as she walks to the door. "It really was nice meeting you."

He doesn't notice that she left the book until she's already gone.

* * *

When Scott is hyper-focused on work— which, to be fair, is all the time— Stiles always likes to head into the clinic and distract him from all forms of productivity. It's actually a really fun challenge, because Scott actually _likes_ his job. So in order derail him from his work, Stiles has to have something really, really good.

Usually, his stories about random dates with girls that always end in sex and and _never_ end with another phone call aren't enough to break Scott's concentration. Stiles has spent years hooking up with girls who haven't found their soulmates, just like he hasn't found his. Hadn't, that is. Now he has, and he's probably going to be able to use this as a tragic story, which will be awesome, except he'd rather it not be tragic at all.

He'd rather have Lydia.

Except he's been looking forward to bursting into Scott's clinic and finally shouting out the words for years, and the fact that it didn't exactly turn out the way he'd intended it to is only going to temper his joy a little bit. Well, fifty-percent. Seventy-five.

Definitely no more than eighty-two percent, okay?

"I met my soulmate!"

Scott stares at the door to the clinic with his eyes wide as saucers, his mouth slightly open as his fingers clench around the needle in his hand. He'd been about to administer a shot to a cat, but luckily hadn't been in the process of it, and the cat glares at Stiles reproachfully as Scott gapes.

"You… you met your… Stiles, congratulations!"

"Thank you," he preens, slamming the door behind him and walking into the back room, where Scott is standing looking as though Stiles had just delivered him a truck filled with pizzas and cupcakes. "She's fuckin' _hot_ , Scotty. She has a PhD in biochem. Isn't that _hot_?"

"Definitely," Scott responds, beaming. "When are you going to see her again?"

"Oh," Stiles says, ignoring this as he hops up onto the exam table. The cat hisses at him. He flips it off. "And her _ass_? She was standing in front of me in line at Espresso, and holy shit, Scott, her ass is so beautifully shaped that I do believe I would have cried if I let myself think about it for too long."

"That's… well, that's great, but when are you seeing her again?"

He avoids Scott's eyes as he says, "Uh, probably never," and chooses to cover this statement with a tiny cough. Unsurprisingly, Scott hears it. And his eyes widen.

"Wait, what?"

For a second, Scott looks genuinely pissed, like this is Stiles' doing. Which… yeah right. Stiles has been desperate to meet his soulmate since Scott had met Allison sophomore year of high school. She'd moved to Beacon Hills, captivated Scott McCall right off the bat, and Stiles had been left in the dirt like the poor sucker he is. He's spent his entire life coughing in the face of their dust, and he had always sort of expected it to stop when he met his soulmate.

But whatever. He's not letting this sink in yet. He's still riding the high of getting to meet her in the first place, and it hasn't quite registered with him that he's never going to see this woman again. He's been falling asleep with a smile on his face for the past two nights, and it doesn't feel like it's settling that.

Lydia Whittemore makes him stupidly euphoric. Insanely euphoric. He'd have to be _insane_ to be this happy to meet a woman who is _married_ after wanting to meet his soulmate for so many years. He should be crushed. But, in reality, all he can focus on is the color of her eyes in that tight little dress and the way they had barely been able to look away from his face the whole.

"You're gonna get pissed at me."

"I'm not," Scott promises.

"Dude, you are."

When Scott frowns and pushes some hair out of his eyes, his wedding ring catches the light. Stiles cringes.

"So, it uhhh… it turns out she's married." Silence. "Crazy, right?"

Scott stares. His eyes get wider. Then they get wider.

"Stiles, I'm… I'm so sorry. That's complete shit."

He knows it's a big deal when Scott swears, because Stiles suspects that his best friend still expects Melissa to pop out of random corners and wash his mouth out with soap at the first sign of foul language.

"Yeah, it is," he says, nodding emphatically. "Of course it is."

"So you met her, and she was married, and… what? You just said goodbye?"

"Uh, no!" Stiles says brightly. "We actually went out to dinner. As friends, you know. I got to talk to her."

"And?"

"And she does like Star Wars, despite her acknowledgement of some inaccuracies. I can live with that."

The expression on Scott's face turns from regretful to suspicious.

"You're hiding something."

"What?" asks Stiles innocently.

"What did you do, Stiles?"

"I told you. We went to dinner."

"And at dinner you—?"

"Talked a lot."

Scott's expression turns even more suspicious.

"Oh no."

" _What_?"

"And after dinner, Stiles?" he asks, sounding tired and dejected.

Damn. He's good. Stiles has to give him that, Scott McCall is _good_.

"I offered to go back to my place so I could loan her a book."

"And she followed you?"

"Yup."

"And then."

Stiles is fit to burst at this point, which he would feel bad about if he wasn't in such a good mood.

"And then we had sex."

Scott's eyes swivel to the ceiling, then down to the cat who he's treating. The cat stares back until Scott turns his eyes back to Stiles. For the first time, he feels shame curdling in his gut. It's ugly, and painful, and he doesn't like it.

But… no. He's not going to feel bad about this. He's not going to feel bad about finally getting to have sex with his soulmate.

He had one night with her and he knows that she's the love of his life. He just knows.

"She's somebody's wife, Stiles."

"She's _my_ soulmate."

"But she's somebody's wife!"

"I'm not anybody's husband."

"So?"

"So," Stiles snaps, "she made a choice. I didn't force her to do anything."

"But you _knew_ —"

"She's not _his_ soulmate," Stiles argues. "And, shit, Scott, we have no idea what that marriage is like. Why she married him, or how she feels about it, or how she feels about _me_. All I know is that she kissed me first, and she's the one who fucked me, and that's… that's what matters. Not her stupid husband."

Scott's jaw clenches.

"Are you going to see her again?" he asks. This time, he sounds so serious. Stiles doesn't want to answer honestly, but he does anyways.

"If she calls me, then yes," he says, squaring his shoulders. "Scott, when I'm talking to her, it _feels_ like I'm talking to my soulmate. Do you get that? Do you understand that?"

He doesn't say anything. Instead, he turns his attention back to the cat and carefully administers the shot. Stiles sighs, hopping off of the table and walking towards the exit.

"Congratulations," Scott says softly from the exam table.

Stiles pauses with his hand on the door. He doesn't want to leave. But Scott is _never_ this tense around him, never this upset, and it doesn't feel like it's up to him. Scott's the best person in his life.

"Call me when you want to talk again, okay? It's up to you." He turns in time to see Scott nod resolutely. "Love you, buddy. Tell Allison and the kiddo I say hello."

For a moment, he wants to ask Scott if he's going to tell Allison about this. Then he thinks that maybe it's better he doesn't know. Stiles isn't sure what he would want the answer to be anyways.

* * *

The precinct is way too busy today. Stiles has been processing people's papers all day, and he's bored out of his mind. Also, his hand has a cramp. Like, a really bad cramp. He complains to Lauren that he thinks he's getting carpel tunnel, and she rolls her eyes and comments that he would have hated it in the good ol' days, when they didn't have computers and had to do all of it by hand.

Stiles' response that she's only three years older than him so "how would you know anyways?" only serves to earn him a glare, which is confusing to him because he'd been saying that she's younger than she'd claimed, which is technically a compliment. What's up with that? But he just bares his teeth slightly before he goes back to his computer, bopping around to a Mayday Parade album as he works. He actually manages to get into a rhythm by the time noon hits, between head banging and typing. He's totally got this down.

And then his phone goes off in his pocket, and Stiles fishes it out to see a number that he doesn't have in his contacts.

"Buddy the elf, what's your favorite color?" he says cheerfully.

"Pink," replies a familiar voice. "And that's the second time you've asked me that."

Stiles straightens up in his desk chair, his heart slamming against his chest. He knocks down a stapler, the crash scaring Lauren, and she shoots him a brief 'what's wrong with you?' look before Stiles shoves a hand over his ear and twirls around in his desk chair, hunching over his phone so that he can hear.

"Lydia?"

"Hi."

"W… uh? Why are you calling me? How did you get my number?"

"Which answer would you like to hear first?" she asks, sounding like she's trying not to laugh.

"Second one."

"I'm a genius."

"Enough said."

"And as for your first question… I finished the book."

His heart almost stops.

"Wait, what?"

"I bought my own copy."

"You… did."

"You said you didn't want you soulmate going around without having read it. So I rectified the problem."

It's been two weeks since they'd had sex. It took two weeks for her to decide to go out, buy the book, read the book, and then call him about it. To be honest, he hadn't been expecting to hear from her. He doesn't even have her _number_. But Lydia is speaking to him like this is nothing, nothing at all, so he wonders how much time she's had to adjust to the fact that she was going to call him, essentially opening up a door that she had closed by leaving his copy of the book on his side table.

"I appreciate that. I think it would have bogged me down."

Because, you know, dreaming about her all the time hasn't been bogging him down at all. He's _fine_.

"So, anyways, I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch and discuss it?"

"Uh, sure, where would you wanna meet? There's some really nice cafes down the street from my precinct, and—"

"Actually, your apartment will be just fine," Lydia says breezily. "And, Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Eat before I get there."

He swallows hard, and the line goes dead. Stiles sets his phone on the desk, staring at it like it might detonate.

"Oh god. What did you do?" asks Lauren warily. "Did you accidentally order wings with bones instead of boneless wings? Because you know how stupid you look when you try to eat those. You should just call them back."

"Look, I don't understand why the meat is so hard to— never mind, that's not the point. I'm not having wings for lunch."

"Well, what are you having? Do you want to get subs?"

He smiles fondly at her, then tugs on her long brown ponytail as he walks past her.

"Don't wait up, kiddo."

She shouts a threat about doing the jello prank from The Office if he doesn't come back in an hour, and Stiles waves at her as he hits the elevator button to go down. He jogs to his car, then throws on the sirens and blares them on the five minute drive to his apartment. He's in the middle of stuffing a sandwich down his throat when there's a knock on the door, and Stiles bounds over to it, throwing it open to reveal Lydia in a casual dress and a pair of heels.

"Hi, Stiles," she says, pushing some hair back behind her ear. Her wedding ring glints in the sun. He ignores this.

"Hey," he breathes. "Lydia."

She's holding her copy of the book, and when he says her name, her lips quirk up and she offers it to him.

"I… brought you this."

"I already have a copy," he points out, confused.

"There's notes in it," Lydia says quietly. There's shame in her voice, and he suddenly knows what a big deal it is that she'd done that.

"Thank you," Stiles says, taking the book from her. She nods, seeming to struggle with something, so he makes the choice for her, leaning down to gently press his lips against hers. When he pulls back, it's only because Lydia's smiling. Her eyes are closed, hands clutching his shoulders, and she doesn't let him straighten-up for a few moments. "You wanna come in?" Stiles asks, nudging his nose against hers. Lydia nods.

He shuts the door with his foot and watches as Lydia goes to stand in the middle of the front room, looking around at it curiously.

"You've got a really nice place," she comments. "I didn't notice it much last time."

He smiles.

"Were you nervous?"

"More like distracted."

"It's tiny," says Stiles. "And I'm a shit decorator."

"It has personality."

"Can I get you anything?" he asks, cutting off her blatant lies because personality is clearly code for 'mess.' "Did you eat?"

She nods.

"Um, yes. Before I got here."

"Cool. Good. Nice. Food is… uh… delicious. Nutritious."

_Jesus Christ, shut up, now you're rhyming._

He stills for a moment, then jolts into movement, starting to walk over to the couch. He then realizes that he'd literally gotten her off on it two weeks before and changes course quickly, nabbing his copy of the book from the shelf before he walks over to the kitchen table and sits down, pushing out a chair for Lydia with his foot.

"So what was your favorite part?" asks Stiles. Lydia hovers in the doorway before sitting down on the chair, perched there with her back straight.

"I starred it for you," she says. "I actually… well, I wanted you to know what I liked about it. I wanted you to have that."

"I sense a 'but.'"

"But I didn't actually come here to talk about it."

"Ah," he says, nodding once. "I suspected as much."

"You did?"

"One doesn't usually eat ahead of time when they're going to a lunchtime book club."

"You know what might help the book club part, though, is some wine."

"Wine?" he repeats, and Lydia nods hopefully.

"My mom used to have wine with her book club, and I would sneak downstairs and steal some in high school," she says, her tone implying that the memory is fond instead of lonely. " _Clearly_ I was a badass teenager."

He gets up, grabs the only two wine glasses he has, and fills both of them. His is just for show— he's really not going to drink before he goes back to work. But Lydia grabs hers from him and takes a long gulp, one that feels horrible going down his stomach.

Does she seriously need to be drunk to have this conversation with him?

"I wanted to talk to you about…"

"The sex."

"The sex, yes."

"Did you— uh— I'm assuming your husband didn't find out?"

"No," Lydia says, bristling indignantly. "What do you take me for?"

He starts to grin.

"A woman who had sex with her soulmate when she was married to someone else, Lydia."

Her face contorts angrily.

"You had sex too!"

"Oh, I know," he promises, throwing his hands up. "I remember. Vividly. But I wasn't cheating on anyone."

"You _knew_ —"

"Lydia," he says, now feeling impatient, "I honestly don't give a damn that you're married. I don't care. I know that's wrong, but you're… you're my fucking soulmate. As far as I'm concerned, that's _enough_ , no matter what the hell else is going on in your life."

Her posture is still stiff, but at least her face is less defensive.

"I wish I felt worse about it," she whispers. "But all I could think about was… you."

He's basically ready to drop onto his knees in front of her at that and suggest that they run away together and never look back, but he holds himself back for the sake of politeness. Lydia is staring at her hands, twisting them together nervously, and he gets the sense that she isn't usually so unconfident. He doesn't know what to do— he would feel terrible that he made her this way, but all he can do is look at the constellation of lines across her wrist and think that this moment is supposed to be happening.

Stiles knows exactly what this is. And he wants it. He wants it in any form that it comes in.

"I've been thinking about you a lot too."

She looks happy about that, which pleases him.

"The thing is… talking to you… it was like…"

"It was like finally meeting the person who I was supposed to spend my whole life talking to," he says boldly. "That's what it felt like."

Lydia nods, biting her lower lip.

"It's not about my husband."

He tilts his head to the side.

"Okay?"

"It's about you," she says clearly. "It's about… Stiles, I feel like… I feel like if I had met you earlier in life, you could have been my best friend. And I _never_ feel like that about people. I don't have best friends. I have a husband, and a son, and my mother, and acquaintances. I don't get to _talk_ to people like I spoke with you."

"That's shit," says Stiles bluntly. Lydia laughs. Takes another sip of the red wine.

"I know, right?"

"I can totally loan you my best friend. He's the nicest, it's actually kind of disgusting. I swear to god, he could befriend a mountain lion that was about to eat him."

"That sounds lovely," Lydia replies. "I'll talk to the librarian about the interloan system."

"So you came here to talk to me," Stiles infers. "To… be friends?"

"Well, that's the thing," she says, lips sliding up mischievously. "There's a part of me that feels like we opened a can of worms."

He smirks slightly.

"Yeah, I think you might be right."

"And, the truth is, it's _far_ harder to close a can than it is to open it."

"Resealing is a whole process."

"Exactly."

"I don't have any ziplock bags."

"You're a dork."

"Well aware of that, thanks."

"The point is—"

"Lydia," he says, cutting her off. "You know what you're doing, right?"

She stares at him. Tilts her head to the side. Watches him watching her.

"I do."

"And… you still want me?"

Her shrug is helpless, but she doesn't seem upset.

"So much, Stiles."

He stands up and walks over to her chair, Lydia following him with her body, turning towards him. She's about to stand up with him, but Stiles shakes his head and slides down onto his knees in front of her, unable to stop himself from _smiling_. She's really beautiful, and she looks relaxed, and he wants to talk to her until his voice is hoarse.

But for now, he lets her bend down and kiss him.

"One condition," Stiles says, pulling back.

"Okay?"

"Tell me your maiden name."

He's been wondering this since that night— he wants to picture what this could have been in the before. Before she'd met her husband. Before she married him. Before there was some guy that Stiles had never met who had decided to stand firmly in the way of his happiness.

"Martin," she replies automatically. "My name is Lydia Martin."

He goes down on her until it's time for him to go back to work, lost in the marks that he bites into her thighs, in the way her legs bracket him, in the way her cheeks look after he makes her come the second time. He lets himself vanish into an idea of Lydia Martin, the most popular girl in her high school. Lydia Martin, math genius. Lydia Martin, his soulmate.

Even though there is a terrible ache that burns through his body, he is somehow able to find peace in the way he just gives himself to her over and over again. He is hers to do what she pleases with. He is hers to _hurt_.

Lydia Martin's.

* * *

 

" _36\. Is being in love with blue, then, to be in love with a disturbance? And what kind of madness is it, anyway, to be in love with something constitutionally unable of loving you back?_

_37\. Are you sure— one would like to ask— that it cannot love you back?"_


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody! Welcome to Part II of this fic. Just a few warnings at the top of this fic: This fic continues along the vein of infidelity that was established in the first chapter. If that bothers you, please don't keep reading. As I said last time, I recognize that this is wrong. I'm not romanticizing it in real life, I just want to have fun with fanfiction. 
> 
> Shout out to Cori (savingsciles on tumblr) for writing the fanfic that inspired this, and to Ashley (reyskywalkerrsolo) for beta reading this. Thank you to Sophii (blackjacktheboss) for always being my sounding board, and to Maggie (redstringbanshee) for helping clean up the language in the big sex scene because it's one thing to know where their hands are but another entirely to be able to write it without being confusing. 
> 
> Once again, this fic is an homage to Bluets by Maggie Nelson, and that's where the quotes at the top of and bottom of each chapter are from. This chapter is also only completed because of Sledgehammer by Fifth Harmony, so thank you to that song for existing. It got me through some long nights.
> 
> FINALLY-- I just want to take this opportunity to remind you that Stiles is an unreliable narrator. Don't trust everything he tells you or everything he believes to be true. He is very caught-up in this whole thing, and everything he thinks might not be what's actually happening. (Can you tell that I just wanted to _save_ him the entire time I was writing this? Poor kid.)

" _131\. 'I just don't feel like you're trying hard_ enough _,' one friend says to me. How can I tell her that_ not trying _has become the whole point, the whole plan?"_

 

* * *

 

 

On a Thursday afternoon when Lydia is lying in his bed, Stiles decides that she is most like the color blue.

He's on his knees in front of her, hunched over her as she leans back on his pillows and watches him carefully. Her face is still lightly flushed, her legs are bracketing his sides, and she's toying with the pendant that is hanging from a chain around her neck as she stares up at him with an almost absentminded smile on her face.

She is like the color blue, he thinks, because he only gets to see her in soft afternoon lighting with the blinds half-closed. She is like the color blue because she never smiles big; every one she gives him is always small and guarded despite the fact that he is working too hard to tear her walls all the way down and build them back up with him on the inside. She is like the color blue because there is a tinge of sadness in every gasp in his ear, every scrape of nails down his back, and every kiss that she leaves on his lips as she says goodbye for the millionth time.

Mostly, she is blue because he always seems to picture her stretched out across his blue sheets, her hair mingling with the color in a way that has become familiar and comfortable and important.

"Next one," Lydia says, nudging him with her knee, and he considers her body carefully, prying open the flannel that she's borrowing from him and peering down her body. His fingers follow the path of his eyes until he finally settles on a small scar on her stomach, stretched like a smile across her flesh.

"Mmm… _this_ one," he says, leaning down and kissing it. Lydia's stomach clenches under his lips, so he places his palm flat across it and kisses it again, moving around slightly with soft kisses along her skin.

"That one's my c-section scar," she says softly, her hands finding his hair and stroking it. When he looks up at her, he realizes that it looks like he's bowing to her. Then he realizes that he doesn't mind at all.

It's a strange feeling— giving like that. He has a feeling that he should pull back before it becomes overwhelming. But he doesn't. Instead, he drops a final kiss on her hip before straightening up so that he's staring down at her again. Lydia closes the flannel over her breasts but leaves it open over her belly button so that Stiles can still see the scar.

"Why'd you need a c-section?" he asks softly, taking the hand that's not playing with her necklace and kissing her fingers one by one. Lydia smiles, scraping her teeth over her lower lip before she speaks.

"Placental abruption." He makes a face, and she laughs. "It's very common."

"You're okay?" he asks seriously.

"It was five years ago. So…. yes."

He smiles softly, hitching her legs more securely around his body, tugging until she's slid down the pillows and is flat on her back on his bed. Stiles doesn't want to think about almost losing her— about what would have happened if the mark on his skin had turned red and he had never gotten to meet Lydia Martin.

Hovering over Lydia, Stiles presses small kisses to her forehead and temples until she finally grabs him and tugs him down to her lips.

"How much time do we have?" he asks, words smushed against her, and she sighs, hitting her head back against the bed as she looks up at him.

"I have to leave at three o'clock."

He checks his watch. Groans.

She's never here long enough.

"Are you hungry?"

Lydia sits up, shoving her hair to the side with a frown on her face as Stiles slides out of bed and tugs his boxer-briefs and his white tee on.

"Maybe."

"Come on. I'll make something."

When he turns around to look at her, she seems curious as she sets her feet on the floor and follows him into his kitchen, buttoning his red and white flannel as she goes.

"You cook?"

"No, I starve to death every day," he says sarcastically. She rolls her eyes, settling into a kitchen chair and crossing her legs underneath herself.

"When did you learn how to cook, smartass?"

He bends over to grab a pan from the cabinet and then yawns as he opens the door to the refrigerator, surveying the contents with a skeptical eye.

Yeah. Nothing. Grilled cheese is happening.

"Scott's mom taught me when my mom died," he says absently, melting butter around the pan. "My dad wasn't really in a good place to take care of a kid, and I wanted to take care of him— and, you know, myself, I guess. So she taught me how to cook. We had lessons after school every day, and she taught Scott too so that I wouldn't feel weird about it."

Lydia doesn't say anything for a moment, so Stiles turns around to read her facial expression.

"She's your third parent, isn't she?"

He nods.

"Oh yeah. She raised me."

"Hmm," Lydia says towards her toes. "That seems unfair."

"What does?"

"You get three parents and the ability to cook."

"And you have two parents and a housemaid," he points out.

"I don't speak to my father, and she only _cleans_."

"I have a dead mom."

There's a pause. Lydia sighs.

"You win."

He flips the grilled cheese with aplomb.

" _Thank you."_ She's off of her chair in a moment, hugging him from behind, pressing her face into the space between his shoulder blades. He can feel the warmth of her breath through the thin white t-shirt that he's wearing, and he uses the hand that's not holding a spatula to reach around to touch her. "Hey. No. It's okay."

"I shouldn't have—"

"You're fine, Lydia," Stiles promises, his voice gentle. He flips off the burner, then turns all the way around, finding her cheeks and brushing his thumbs over them. "You're _fine_."

She bites her bottom lip, nodding worriedly, and he leans down to kiss her. Lydia's body sags against his, and for a moment, he lets himself bask in the feeling of her body. But then he pulls back and she still looks _small_.

"I'm not used to caring what other people think about me," she admits to his questioning gaze. "I've always just known I was better. I'm… Stiles, I'm not careful. And you make me want to be careful."

It's not something he understands, because he's already thrown his care away. He doesn't care what happens now. He just wants her to be there when it does.

"Don't be careful around me," he tells her. "Tell me every shitty thought that crosses your mind. Honestly, the more of a dick you are, the more I'm going to like you."

She laughs loudly.

"Maybe you _would_ have liked high school me."

He rolls his eyes. Kisses her again.

"Pretty sure I'd like _any_ you," he mumbles against her lips. "Any, any, every."

The breath that Lydia releases is shaky and tremorous, so Stiles lets up on the intensity and reaches behind himself for the pan.

"I can't believe you made me grilled cheese," Lydia says, smiling to herself.

"It's easy and we both have to be back at work." He shrugs. "This is what happens when you're stealing moments, Lydia."

He stands over the sink and bites into his sandwich. Lydia eats hers over the pan. A few minutes later, they're kissing goodbye and heading off in opposite directions.

And that's Thursdays.

* * *

 

Scott is seated in Stiles' house for the first time in weeks. It's still a little tentative, but Allison's got the baby today, and Stiles is just grateful that he'd finally gotten a phone call. It had taken almost a painfully long time for his cell to finally ring with Scott on the other end, letting him know that Allison was going up to her parents' for the weekend and leaving Scott at home. Stiles had been more than grateful to get the call. He hadn't even bothered to play it cool.

"That's the dumbest call this ref has ever made," comments Stiles, taking a swig of his beer. Scott makes a small sound of agreement, his brows pressed together, and the two of them lean forward when the ball rolls towards the goal.

"Go go go go," Scott encourages, but the goalie stops it and they both lean back with a groan.

"Don't you hate it when the TV doesn't listen to you?" Stiles asks rhetorically. "It's rude."

Scott huffs out a laugh, which is interrupted with a knock at the door to Stiles' condo. He turns to Scott.

"You gonna get that?"

He dodges the pillow that Scott throws to him as he walks to the door, laughter still on his face as he slides it open.

Lydia is standing there, a pretty dress blowing around her knees in the breeze of the day, hands clutched around two shopping bags. Her cheeks are rouged a little pink from the wind, but her smile is bright, and he can see something content settle in her eyes as she looks across at him.

For a moment, he lets her steal his breath.

"Hi," she murmurs, almost shy, but then she ducks forward and kisses him on the mouth, not caring that they're outdoors.

" _Hey_ ," he replies, deepening the kiss. Lydia drops the bags and winds her arms all the way around his neck, lips curved upwards as she feels his hand sneak down to her ass and drag her closer. "This is a really nice surprise."

"I bought you pillows," Lydia says, stepping back and gesturing towards the bags at her feet. "Um. I was shopping and I saw them and I thought they would look good with your couch, and—" He raises his eyebrows. "What?"

"Are you trying to decorate my house?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you define this hovel as a house," she teases.

"Ooph." He puts his hand over his heart and scrunches his nose up. " _Ouch_."

"Jackson and Andrew are at some away game for his softball team, and I thought maybe I would come over and see if you'd let me invade your life in another way."

"By decorating my house."

She shrugs.

"We could try out the pillows," she suggests flirtily.

His hand tightens on her ass for a moment, absolutely ready to do that, and then he remembers who is currently on his couch.

"Oh. Shit."

Lydia frowns.

"What?"

"Scott is here."

"Your best friend?"

"Yep, that one."

Lydia's expression shifts at once, immediately becoming guarded.

"I'll just get going then."

"You don't have to," says a voice quietly, and both of them turn around to see Scott standing behind Stiles, his expression grim. "Not on my account, anyways."

Lydia's face goes blank as she stares at Scott, guarding herself. And it's _strange_ , because Stiles has only ever seen people become more open in front of Scott. But Lydia is clamming up and he wants to reach out for her, but he also wants to slam the door on the two of them so that these two worlds never collide. He is irrationally terrified of what would happen if this were to go badly.

"Uh, Lydia, this is Scott. My best friend."

"And you're—"

"Lydia Whittemore," she says, cutting Scott off and sticking out a brave hand. Her expression turns into a mask of confidence, and she offers him a small smile. "Stiles' soulmate."

"It's really nice to meet you." Scott's face is sincere, and Stiles can tell that Lydia's startled by it.

"I was… bringing him pillows."

"Oh, I didn't realize you two were that serious," Scott says, starting to joke, and then Stiles can see the exact moment where it sets in that they will never be able to get serious because they aren't supposed to be together. They aren't supposed to be doing this. "Lydia, do you want to watch the game with us?"

She glances over at Stiles with wide eyes, but he just stares back, letting her decide.

"What kind of game?"

"Soccer," Stiles tells her. "But you don't have to, it's—"

"I'd love to," she says, grabbing his hand. "Thank you, Scott."

Her voice is gentle, and he knows she's only agreeing because she's thankful that Scott is making some sort of effort to extend an invitation. But, still, Lydia follows the two of them into the condo and Scott moves over so that she can find a place on the couch.

At first, everything is stiff and polite and awkward. And then, suddenly, Lydia's shoes are off, she's leaning against Stiles, she's stolen his beer out of his hands, forcing him to get a new one, and they're all yelling at the television together. It's loud and over dramatic and there's a sense of companionship that comes from it all. He presses his thank you into her hair, mouth moving against her as he drops a kiss to her temple, and Lydia just shakes her head and leans on him harder.

It's a good afternoon. Probably one of the best Stiles has ever had, and a part of him feels like he's flying when Scott and Lydia yell the same thing at the same time, and when both of them go on a rant about some random thing that Stiles doesn't care about. He slides out of focus and just watches them, thinking about how glad he is that all of this is happening.

Lydia stands up a few hours later, promising to bring Stiles her mother's famous lasagna recipe so that Scott's wife can make it, and lets Stiles walk her to the door.

"Okay," she concedes once it's closed behind them. Her fingers wrap around Stiles'; she watches the way they entwine together as she speaks. "So that wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"What? The fact that you're moving into my condo?"

She groans.

"Stop. They're _pillows_ , and you have terrible taste. Even Scott says so."

"Are you guys going to constantly be ganging up on me now?"

"Definitely," Lydia says, her expression very serious. "Prepare yourself for that."

He kisses her lightly.

"You gotta go."

"I know." She sighs. "I'll see you on Monday?"

He nods. He hates the weekends.

Lydia gets into her car and drives off and Stiles tastes blue on his tongue as he trails it across his bottom lip.

When he walks back into the house, Scott's got the volume of the TV down so that they can talk.

"Well?" says Stiles once he is comfortably seated on the couch. "What do you think? You can tell me. It's not gonna change anything, but you totally can."

Scott laughs to himself.

"Yeah. I know."

He's silent for a moment, his eyes avoiding Stiles'.

"Scotty?"

"I like her," Scott admits. "But… Stiles? That's not _enough_."

That's the problem.

"The thing is… for me, it is."

* * *

 

The only time Stiles has ever liked rain is when he was a little kid.

He can remember sitting on the floor with his mom, peering out the front door and watching rain clatter chaotically onto the pavement, causing the whole world to seem more vibrant. He can remember the way she would hum along to the tune of the splatter, and the way her cold hands would always wrap around his ankles and gently tug him closer so that she could hug him to her chest. He can remember it raining three days after she died, and how the grass hadn't looked greener when he peered out the window, trying to find any source of color in the world.

Lydia, on the other hand, loves rain. She thinks it's romantic. And it's too damn bad that he can't really do much for her in the romance department, because he has _ideas_. She gives him ideas. Things that will never be realized, because they can't be seen in public together, so instead he takes her into his bed and fucks her until maybe she understands a small piece of what this means to him. What this _is._

Tonight, he's sitting in his cruiser, the radio on a low din as he thinks about her, and he wonders if he's ever felt so resentful towards rain. People aren't speeding much because they're worried about hydroplaning, which means Stiles has nobody to be mean to in order to get out his pent up frustration. Lauren's out with her girlfriend tonight, so Stiles can't even blame his boredom on her. She's having a good time in public with her significant other, while Stiles stays cooped up in his squad car and resents the whole universe for fucking him over like this.

His phone buzzes to life in his pocket. Stiles pulls it out to see Lydia's name and her contact picture flashing across his screen.

"Hey?"

"Are you pulled over on the side of the road on Jefferson?"

"Um. Are you following me?"

"Absolutely."

"Cool."

"No, Andrew's school had parent-teacher conferences tonight. I'm on my way home. And I'm pulling in behind you."

He squints into his rearview mirror as Lydia's lights show up there, almost blinding him. It's a nice surprise. A night-making surprise, actually. He rarely gets to see Lydia in the evenings, and there's a part of his heart that is beating faster just at the idea of _unusual_ , despite the fact that they've been doing this for a few months and he shouldn't be nervous about seeing her. She shouldn't still get him excited like this. He should be getting over this.

Instead, he finds himself praising the universe for throwing them this opportunity to break the mold of their usual meetups. Any instance where they're shaking normalcy somehow just makes him want to shake it in an even _bigger_ way. And then he can pretend that they're moving.

"Get out of the car," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"Get out."

"It's raining."

"So?"

"I'll get wet."

"That's the plan," replies Stiles, and then he hangs up the phone, opens the door, and ducks into the warm rain that is pouring heavily from the sky. Lydia is hopping out of her car, squinting in the lights that haven't shut off yet.

"I was coming to you!"

He starts walking quickly through the rain on the quiet, almost abandoned road.

"I'm coming to you," he hollers over the sound of rain hitting pavement. Lydia's hair is plastered to her face, her hands rubbing warmth into her bare arms.

"You're _crazy_ ," she shouts at him.

Stiles speeds up his gait, and so does Lydia, and when he finally reaches her, he catches her around the waist and spins her before dipping his head and kissing her. She tastes like rain and lipstick, but he doesn't care because he feels like he can _breathe_ again now that he's touching her. His heart speeds up and his head calms down, and Lydia's wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him harder, her back arching backwards.

"That could be true," he says quietly. "You're probably not wrong."

She laughs through her nose, and an unspoken current of want runs through her eyes as she looks at him. Stiles slides his hand down into hers, pressing their wet palms together and sprints with her back to his car, opening the door to the backseat for her and letting her get in first. Stiles crawls into the dry space after her and slams the door shut. Lydia's on him in an instant, her mouth desperate as she goes for the buttons on his black uniform.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mutters when her hands are shaking too much to be able to get them. "Stiles."

"Yeah, got it," he responds, undoing the buttons himself, and then Lydia is stripping the shirt off of them and tugging at the black t-shirt underneath it. He gets it off and sits back against the door as she scrambles up to kneel in front of him, lips finding his neck, biting and sucking until he can feel himself bruise. She trails her hands and mouth down to his collarbone, panting heavily as she gets lower and trails kisses down to his sternum. " _Fuck_ , Lydia," he murmurs as her hand moves to the front of his pants.

It's dark, but in the light of the streetlamps he can see her eager eyes and the way her dress is plastered to her body, her nipples poking through the thin fabric. When she kisses him again, her breasts push into his chest and he finds himself sliding his hands under her dress, rucking up the wet fabric until it's around her middle, his hands pulling her tighter against him.

"Oh," she sighs, tilting her head to the side and leaning it into his neck, her hot breath fanning out against his wet skin. " _God_."

"You're so fuckin' beautiful," he says. She starts kissing him again, pulling her dress over her head and throwing it into the front seat before she settles backwards. She lifts one of her legs over the seat to give him more room to crawl between her legs and kiss her feverishly, his mouth reverent on hers. "You fuck me up so bad, Lydia."

She places her hand on his cheek and strokes, her wedding band cool against his skin.

"I want you," she murmurs, unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down his hips. "Not just this, Stiles, I want—"

"I know," he murmurs soothingly, kissing her skin. "And you can have me. Anything," he promises. She nods seriously as he shoves the cup of her bra down and sucks on her nipple, flicking his tongue over it in the way he knows she likes.

"Just stay," she whispers into the air. "Stay with me."

He looks up at her, almost wanting to feel angry at the idea that she would feel the need to request it of him.

"Lydia," he says darkly. "You don't even have to ask."

* * *

 

"I want you to know— and I mean this with all my heart—" Stiles doesn't even look up from his phone to focus on what Lauren is saying. He's on a break, and he isn't going to get to see Lydia today, so they've been texting nonstop. His whole morning has been spent giggling at inopportune moments and ignoring his partner's desperate pleas for him to do his job. "—if you do not put down your phone and file some paperwork so that we can get people out of the pen, I will take the videos I have of you doing your choreographed dance to Push It, and I will send them to your soulmate."

The word 'soulmate' is what gets his attention. His head whips up, far too quickly, and Lauren can clearly tell that she's hit the jackpot because her lips curve in satisfaction.

"I haven't met my soulmate, Lauren."

She rolls her eyes.

"Please."

"Wh… what?"

He knows she's observant, but this is ridiculous. He hasn't told a single person except for Scott that he had met Lydia. Although he'd had to tell Lauren that his mark had changed color, it had been soon after he met Lydia, and he didn't know who she was yet. It was before _all_ of this started. There hadn't been anything to tell.

"You met her months ago," Lauren says patiently. "And you've been seeing her ever since. How do you actually think I wouldn't pick up on that?"

"You're too good at your job," Stiles grumbles.

"Oh, I know," replies Lauren happily. "Thanks though!" She sits on his desk. "So. What's she like?"

Stiles looks sideways at the other people in their office, then sighs and grabs Lauren by the arm, tugging her into a nearby hallway that doesn't get much traffic.

"You can't tell anyone," is the first thing he says, although it probably isn't the best opening. Her brows contract immediately.

"I'd gathered that it was some sort of secret when you didn't start shouting it around the office. But why?"

He closes his eyes.

"She's married."

Lauren's hands are punching his chest almost as soon as the second word is out of his mouth.

"Are you _kidding_ me, Stilinski?"

"Ow!" he protests, rubbing the spots where she'd punched him. "Look, her husband's a dick and she's _my_ soulmate, not his, so I don't care what you think. I'm not stopping it."

"Do you honestly think this is going to end well?" Lauren asks, her brown ponytail swinging as she shakes her head at him. "And, for the record, that wasn't hypothetical. Seriously. I'm asking."

"Shut up," he complains. "It's going to be fine. We fell in love."

"You fell in love… with someone who is married."

He's had this argument with himself too many times, and Lauren probably knows that, too, because she's a good cop and she knows everything there is to know about him. He's her partner. That's just the nature of what they have. In the end, it's actually good that this secret is out, because now he's not hiding from her anymore.

His eyes harden, glaring at her, and Lauren meets his gaze with defiance.

"I know she's married, but right now this is what's happening and I'm going to need to know if you're going to be on board or not."

Actually, it kind of sucks to be threatening her like this. He'd rather not sacrifice his relationship with his partner for anything. He and Lauren have been through the _ringer_ together. Stiles has risked his ass for her countless times, plus she's done the same for him.

But Lydia isn't 'anything.' Not anymore. From the moment she first kissed him, she became everything. The thing he would destroy his life for. And isn't that what he's been doing?

"Can I meet her?" Lauren asks eventually. Stiles breathes out, long and slow, relief flooding his body. He places a hand on her shoulder and stares deeply into her eyes.

"Absolutely not," he says sincerely.

"Right, right," replies Lauren. "Oh, just out of curiosity, what kind of whiskey do you want to get drunk on when all of this eventually falls to shit?"

"Something expensive," he says, starting to walk back towards the front room.

"No," Lauren says, voice cutting. "One more thing, Stiles."

He turns around, frowning.

"What's up?"

"Look. I don't care what you do with your personal time. I mean, I do, but if you're going to make these choices, there's nothing I can do to stop you. We all know I'm better at being a human being than you are and I'm also a far more superior cop, but…" The teasing leaves her voice. "But if you're not going to listen to good judgement, I can't do anything about that. Except I _can_ tell you that if you continue to be a shitty cop like you have been lately, and all because you're too focused on this, I'm not going to cover your ass. I care about you way too much to let you avoid consequences. You need to know that there's actual balls in the air. Your soulmate? She's making all the sacrifices. If this fails, she's the one who's going to be losing everything. You're not losing anything. But you need to know that if you continue to shirk responsibility and be distracted, I will make damn sure that there are ramifications for you. Got it?"

Stiles swallows hard.

"Uh. Yeah. Got it."

It's Lauren's turn to pat him on the shoulder as a large beam stretches out across her face.

"Alrighty then. Good talk, Stilinski."

He follows her meekly back to his desk and ignores the buzzing from his phone that tells him that Lydia's sent him another text. He definitely doesn't mean to glance up at Lauren to see if she's noticed, but she's smirking at her computer like she knows.

Stiles is going to have to make sure she's not somehow getting all of his text notifications. Because damn it, she's good.

* * *

 

Some nights feel like the entire world is dangling right over his head, waiting to drop.

Stiles shifts and turns in his bed, trying to avoid it, but the weight of it follows him wherever he goes. Everything is _quiet_ , despite the fact that Lydia had been in his bed less than twelve hours ago, laughing at the way he impersonated Scott upon realizing that he had accidentally mixed up Allison's breast milk with the heavy cream that Stiles had been readying for his coffee and Scott wasn't sure which one he'd given the baby.

The silence is thundering in his chest, echoing through his body in a way that feels like 'lonely.' Tonight, Scott is probably cuddling with Allison and the kiddo. Lauren is probably cuddling with her girlfriend and their new cat. And Lydia Martin is curled up in bed next to her husband, having just put their son to bed.

Leaving Stiles.

By himself.

Stiles, who hasn't fallen asleep with someone else in months because he's in a monogamous relationship with someone who's in a monogamous relationship with another guy. Tonight, he'd had dinner at Scott and Allison's and it had felt like a particularly cruel brand of _shitty_ because he was never going to have this with Lydia. And the worst part is that he would do this forever— he will stay as long as she want him to. He could make the decision to never have this with anyone else and to spend the rest of his life lonely and that would be the choice that he had made to make himself happy.

_Lydia [1:45am]: You awake?_

_Stiles [1:46am]: Yeah. Why are you?_

_Lydia [1:46am]: Something feels off._

_Stiles [1:49am]: I know._

_Lydia [1:50am}: It's wrong. I'm lying here and I feel wrong._

He's about to type out a response when suddenly his phone begins vibrating in his palm.

"Lydia?"

"Hi," she whispers.

Stiles bolts up in bed, his back against the headboard as he presses his phone hard against his ear, hoping that it'll make him feel like the missing piece is snapping into place.

"Are you still in bed?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, still whispering. "I just… missed you."

He can hear snoring in the background. It feels so disgustingly intimate to know that her husband snores. He suddenly can feel his insides collapsing, and he wants to curl up and cry over it, over the fact that this man is asleep and doesn't even realize what Stiles is giving up so that he can be happy. Doesn't even realize that Lydia is running to Stiles because Jackson isn't _enough_ , and Stiles would be enough, he's sure of it.

'Enough' for him is anything that involves Lydia. But _she_ needs more. She needs to not be someone's trophy wife. She needs to not be held back in her career. She needs someone who will love her with every bit and piece of himself.

She's too good for Jackson. She's too important. And maybe she's too important for Stiles too, but at least he would _acknowledge_ it. He wouldn't snore his way through a lifetime with her.

"I missed you too."

"Is that why you're not asleep?"

He lets out an empty laugh.

"Maybe?"

"How was dinner with Scott and Allison?"

"I had to change a diaper."

"So not that great?"

"I mean, as godfather I sort of expected it, but at the same time… every time I have to do one, I think a part of my soul dies. Does that make me a terrible person?"

"No. I get that."

"Also, I'm kinda like… you made the thing, you take care of its shits."

"Okay, see, now we're veering off into 'asshole' territory."

"Good to know where the line is."

"I'll pull you back."

"How?"

"Talk about how cute he is."

"Oh. Oh! Oh, that baby is _damn_ cute. And he's gonna have freaking incredible dimples, Allison and Scott are such pushovers, they're never gonna be able to say no to him."

"Are you going to be the bad cop?"

"Nah, I'll be supplying him with cigars, porn magazines, and alcohol."

"I feel morally obligated to tell Scott that you said that."

"Believe me. He knows."

"Would he do the same for your kid?"

"No, but that's because my kid is going to be a girl and Scott's going to have to beat up any dude who comes near her before she's thirty, on account of the fact that I'm too much of a wuss to do it."

Lydia laughs.

"Do you really think he'd be okay with that?"

"He'd have to be. He owes me for giving his kids the sex talk."

"I feel like his wife would do that."

"You haven't met Allison. She'd be _way_ too good at it, and it wouldn't be nearly as awkward or traumatizing for their kids as it's supposed to be. They _need_ me."

There's a long pause.

"So do I."

He breathes out shakily.

"I wanna fall asleep with you one day," Stiles says. He hears Lydia exhale lengthily and it spurs him on to keep talking. "If I was falling asleep with you and you couldn't sleep, I'd... I'd make you tea or warm milk or something. Whatever works. I'd sing you lullabies but I wouldn't remember the words so I'd make them up. I'd tell you stories about high school because you can't lose, between my idiocy and Scott's willingness to go along with it just to see where it goes. _Man_ , I've got some stories."

"I know," she murmurs.

He keeps talking, weaving untruths out of hope and out of desperation and out of the will that they may someday become tangible.

"I would talk to you. Ask you what's wrong, and if you didn't know, then I would distract you. If you needed to be tired out I would think of some _very_ creative methods to accomplish that with. You'd be all relaxed and exhausted and you'd fall asleep against me and I'd stroke your hair until I was sure you were okay."

"Stiles—"

"Just try to go to sleep, okay?" She hums in agreement. "Um. Did I ever tell you about the first time Scott, Allison, and I went to a club?" He knows he hasn't, so he doesn't wait for her response. Just slides down on one side of the bed, the side that Lydia doesn't prefer, and tells her the story.. "Scott and Allison met when she moved to town sophomore year of high school, and they barely ever needed their marks to know that they were soulmates. So it was just the three of us, our whole lives, and we went to college near each other, and—"

He eventually stops talking when Lydia's breaths begin to sound different than they did before, his chest aching at the idea that he had been what she needed to fall asleep.

"Lyds? You asleep?"

No response. Stiles carefully pulls his phone away from his ear and hesitantly ends the call, half wanting to leave the phone on speaker and close his eyes so it feels like his house isn't completely devoid of anything but his empty feelings.

Instead, he clicks off his phone and falls asleep wrapped up in silence instead of Lydia.

* * *

 

Stiles is speeding.

He _could_ pretend that he's doing it because he left the stove on or something, but the truth is, Stiles' lunch break is getting cut short today, and it's the busiest day of the goddamn week, and if he doesn't get back to the precinct in thirty minutes, Lauren is going to kill him.

It's a five minute drive there and five minute drive back, which means he has twenty minutes total to be with Lydia. And it's the first time he's seeing her in five days, so he has a feeling it's not going to be enough— it's literally never, ever enough— but he's planning on making due with what he has.

His car skids into his parking space, and he leaps out of it with energy he hadn't known he possessed, slamming the door shut and diving for his own front door. It's already unlocked, which means Lydia is here, so Stiles calls out for her as soon as he gets inside.

"HEY! I have, like, twenty minutes, so can we go minimal on the foreplay today?" He strips out of his shirt, throwing it to the ground, then wiggles out of his second shirt as he approaches his bedroom door. "Lauren will seriously kill me if I get back to the precinct later than… holy shit."

Lydia is on his bed in nothing but a pink bra. Her skirt, shirt, and panties are in heaps on the floor. And her back is against two pillows as she looks over at him with freshly bitten lips and an almost guilty expression on her face.

"Um," she says. "I think I'm actually good on the foreplay thing."

As she speaks, her hand continues to move between her legs, her head arching slightly backwards as she pants loudly into the air.

Stiles feels his knees go weak at the sight of her rosy cheeks and flushed chest. She continues to meet his eyes as he watches her, his gaze sweeping over her whole form again and again and again. Lydia stares at him, something hopeful written in her eyes, making him want to give her anything and everything in this whole world.

He breathes out heavily, eyes flicking back up to hers.

"Um," he says softly. "Hi."

"Hi." It comes out in a laugh that turns a bit breathier as her hand speeds up, eyes sweeping over his bare torso. "I got here and I was lying in your bed and it smelled like you, and I started to think about, _god_ , all the things you've done to me in this bed. And on the couch. And in the shower. And in your kitchen."

"Oh," he whimpers. "Okay."

It should probably be embarrassing when he walks up to the edge of the bed and drops to his knees in front of her, watching her.

"Stiles," she murmurs. "Oh god. I wanna be _fucked_. I want you to fuck me."

He's going to _combust_ and it's going to be this woman's fault. And that would probably ruin the mood, but Stiles doesn't even care because what a way to go.

"How does now sound? Is now good?" She presses her lips together and nods desperately. "Yeah, okay," Stiles agrees, standing up and getting his pants off quickly. He slides onto the bed with Lydia, mouth finding hers eagerly. It is wet and sloppy and Lydia is moaning desperately into his mouth, needing more contact, anything.

He's hard as hell and the noises she's making aren't helping.

Neither is the way she pulls back from the kiss and turns over, ending up on her hands and knees in front of him, her head turned back towards him so that he can see her wrecked, pleading eyes.

"You said twenty minutes?"

"More like fifteen now," he admits.

She grins rakishly, handing him a condom from his bedside table.

"Then you have a challenge on your hands, Mr. Stilinski."

Then she lowers herself onto her elbows and waits for him.

He slides into her slowly, making Lydia moan at the feeling of being filled by something other than her fingers. Stiles' left hand cups her ass while his right hand slides onto her back and gently rubs the skin there, briefly, before pulling almost all the way out and thrusting roughly back in. The movement elicits a loud gasp from Lydia, and she bows her head towards the sheets as he continues to fuck into her, his motions getting more eager the louder she is.

She's noisier than usual, really, and when she pushes herself back up onto her hands, arching her head up as she moans, Stiles slides her hair over one shoulder. She turns back and smiles at him breathlessly before ducking her head down again, pushing back against him a little bit harder.

The sounds that she's making, accompanied by the noises the two of them make together, cause a pleasant warmth to grow in Stiles' stomach. Technically, the lack of eye contact should make him feel detached from her. But Lydia's hand comes behind herself to grip at his hip, squeezing lightly before she moves it back down to play with her clit, and it feels so familiar and comfortable that Stiles suddenly cannot remember any other woman in this world. It's just her. It's just them.

Lydia's body clenches around him when she comes, and Stiles has to close his eyes to stop himself from tipping over with her. She's loud in every way that's good, piercing his mind, and leaving him with only one clear, distinct thought: More. So he curves his body over hers, kissing his way down her spine, allowing Lydia to catch her breath. He lightly squeezes the breast that he is cupping before gently tugging her up towards him; her back is pressed against his chest.

Her mouth finds lips, dropping a soft kiss there, then another one, before she brings a hand up to cover the hand that is on her breast and tangle their fingers together over it. Stiles begins thrusting into her again, so much slower that it's almost agonizing, but Lydia is whining high in her throat, and that makes it worth it. He kisses the nape of her neck and rubs circles over her hip with his thumb using his left hand, nuzzling into her temple as she starts pinching at the nipple that isn't being touched by Stiles.

"You feel so good," she says, low in her throat. "I can't stop thinking about you, even when I'm not here. I can't stop thinking about how much I want you all the time."

He growls in her ear as he comes, and it's almost humiliatingly bad, the way she can get to him just by wanting him. Still, he pulls out and deposits the condom in a trash can and then tackles her onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her middle and snuggling into her sweat slicked chest.

"You're _targeting_ me."

Lydia snorts.

"We were running out of time."

"Is time efficiency all our lovemaking means to you?" he teases.

"Every single time," Lydia responds. "You know I like it quick and dirty."

She's being sarcastic, but she's not actually _wrong_.

"You like it every way," yawns Stiles.

Lydia runs a hand tenderly through his hair.

"I like _you_ every way."

He looks up at her, eyes wide and she smiles down at him, looking just as peaceful as he feels.

Stiles slides himself down her body, kissing her c-section scar as he goes.

"I'm gonna be late for work," he decides before widening her legs and ducking between them.

From the floor, his phone begins vibrating incessantly. Stiles devoutly continues.

"Do you plan on answering that?" Lydia questions, her eyes still closed. Stiles hums his 'no' into her. The phone stops ringing. Then starts ringing again.

"Oh man, I'm gonna fucking kill her," Stiles complains, reaching to the floor and grabbing the phone. He slides his thumb across the screen and presses the phone to his ear. "Someone had better be _dead_ , Lauren."

"Wow, double hommie. How'd you know?"

His eyes widen.

"Oh, shit, really?"

"Yeah. You have to get back here right now."

"Give me ten minutes."

"Stiles."

"Give me five minutes?"

"Mhm."

He drops the phone to the floor and gives Lydia a pained look.

"Hate to dine and dash, but."

"I get it," she says, sitting up and then leaning forward to kiss him. "Go save lives."

He sprints around his room, gathering up his clothes and shoving them back on while she admires the view from the bed. Stiles kisses her on the forehead briefly before he leaves the room, heading for the front door. Halfway there, he turns back.

"Hey, Lydia?"

She raises an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"This whole quick sex, no cuddling thing? Super couply."

"Oh, absolutely."

"So I was thinking that maybe I can try forgetting your birthday or something and we can go from there."

"Well, that sounds fantastic."

"Okay, great. I'll see you whenever, babe. Don't wait up."

"Don't forget to take out the trash," she says.

"Also I hate your mother."

Lydia laughs, throwing his pillow at his head.

"Go to _work_."

* * *

 

"I can't believe you're making me do this."

Lauren grumpily lifts a piece of bacon into the air, scrunching her nose at it before she pops it into her mouth.

"You're right," Stiles replied flatly. "Forcing you to eat bacon is probably the worst thing I have ever done to you as your partner."

"It's not the bacon. It's _where_ we're eating the bacon."

Stiles glances around the back patio that they sit on, allowing the cool Sunday morning breeze to ruffle through their hair. It's mainly a classy place, the kind where you have to order a mimosa or they judge you, and all the tables have white cloths on them.

"This is a nice—"

"Not the restaurant, Stiles. _Brunch_."

He tilts his head to the side as he shrugs, his plaid covered shoulders coming up to his ears. This place is definitely too fancy for flannels, but he's forced to wear cop clothes every single day when he's at work. On the weekends, he's going to wear whatever he damn well wants to. And if that means going to a fancyish restaurant in jeans and plaid, Stiles is open to looking like an idiot.

When Lauren had hopped into his car, she had visibly rolled her eyes. But she had also made no comment, which Stiles had _deeply_ appreciated. He wouldn't have changed anyways. Which she knows very well.

"I don't know what your problem is with brunch."

"I have no problems with brunch. I love brunch. When I'm going with my real life partner instead of my work partner."

Stiles gasps mockingly.

"Are you suggesting that I'm less important than Mya?" The flat look that Lauren shoots his way is just enough for Stiles to break character and offer her an appropriately guilty look. "Fine. I'll never make you come to brunch with me ever again."

"That's right. You have Scott to be your girlfriend substitute while this whole thing is going on."

He bites back a vicious comment at the way her words suggest that there will be a time that it ends. Because Stiles can't fathom it ending. Not something so solid, so real. The way he loves Lydia feels like a forever kind of thing, not like something that he would just throw away for nothing.

(Both of them know that, in the end, it'll be Lydia who stops it. So all he has to do is make it so that she doesn't _want_ to stop it, and he's good. He gets to keep her with him.)

"Scott has a _baby_ , he can't come to brunch with me. And I missed going to brunch."

"I don't really care as long as you fulfill the cuddling needs with him and use me for the food and lazer tag parts."

Stiles brightens.

"Oh, hey, after this do you want to go play lazer tag?"

Lauren sighs heavily.

"Jesus, thank _god_ , I've been dropping hints for an hour now."

He laughs.

"Next time just—"

"Oh my god."

For a moment, the sound of Lydia's voice makes Stiles' heart seize in his chest in the best way possible. He turns around in his seat to see her standing there in a purple and white dress that is blowing lightly above her knees. Her hair is swept into a bun, two diamond studs in her ear, and her eyes are wide with surprise because she's seeing him out of normal context. But all Stiles can think about is how beautiful she looks at eleven o'clock in the morning and how he wants to sit her down with him and have her spend time with Lauren and somehow convince Lydia to see him every single morning for the rest of his life.

Then a man pulls up next to her, his angular face contorted into annoyed confusion, and Stiles can feel his insides shrivelling up slightly.

For some reason, he had always pictured Jackson Whittemore to be some poncy intellectual who made a living doing boring shit that nobody cares about. He had expected Jackson to have brown curly hair and be a little bit shorter than Stiles, so that when they eventually encountered each other, he would be able to tower over him.

Jackson's definitely short, but in a fit, stocky way that doesn't have the diminutive quality that Stiles would love to ascribe to him. His face is chiseled like someone had built it into being just to antagonize Stiles. And despite the fact that Stiles is taller for sure, he suddenly doesn't think he could beat Jackson up or frighten him into treating Lydia better or a million things that Stiles has been fantasizing about for half a year.

Because, yeah. Of course Jackson Whittemore is fucking gorgeous. Of course he is the fucking quarterback of the football team and homecoming king. And Lydia was probably head cheerleader and homecoming queen and— and she's currently pleading at him with her eyes, and he doesn't know what she's asking of him, so instead he clams up and stares back.

"Lydia!"

Lauren's voice cuts through the tension that Stiles is relatively certain only the three of them are feeling. Jackson's eyes are half on the phone in his right hand.

"Hi?" she responds.

"It's so good to see you! I can't believe you recognized took that class together _forever_ ago."

"Oh, right," Lydia says, cottoning on. "It's hard to believe how long ago it was." She turns to Jackson, who is still looking at his phone, unaware of the production that is being put on for his benefit. "Jackson, Lauren and I took a zumba class together a few years ago."

Nice deduction skills.

Or maybe Stiles just basically has no friends so it was a 50/50 shot.

Probably the second one.

"Cool," Jackson says, offering Lauren a hand to shake. His eyes widen in surprise at how firm her grip is, which makes Stiles smile a bit. "And you're her husband?" he adds, looking over at Stiles.

"Uh." When he speaks, his voice is like sandpaper. "Partner. Cop partner. Stiles."

"Nice," responds Jackson, looking utterly disinterested. He reaches into the pocket of his pressed pants and swishes around the keys pointedly, meeting Lydia's eyes.

"Well," she says, voice too high and bright. "We have to go. It was lovely seeing you again, Lauren. Nice to meet you, Stiles."

Jackson starts walking ahead, and Lydia lingers a moment to offer them both an apologetic look before she hurries after him, her head towards the ground.

"That guy's a fucker," Lauren comments as soon as the two of them are out of sight. Stiles gapes across the table at her, unable to speak. "Okay, big guy. You might need another mimosa."

He nods mutely, feeling small and colorless.

_Lydia. Stretched out across his navy sheets, laughing against them, wearing his shirt._

No. Not colorless.

Blue.

* * *

 

Mornings are the worst for a plethora of reasons, the first of which is Stiles having to perform the arduous task of leaving his bed and facing the day. He usually stumbles into the kitchen, still yawning, and pours himself a cup of coffee that is only fifty percent caffeine because he knows _exactly_ what happens when he drinks actual regular coffee, and both Lauren and Scott had sat him down with an intervention three years ago.

But today is Saturday, which means that Stiles gets a break from waking up early and instead gets to fuck around until he has to go to Scott and Allison's to take care of the baby around four o'clock. He's got _plans_ for today, plans that include lying in bed binge watching shows on Netflix, and taking the world's longest shower while singing songs that he had liked a lot when he was in middle school.

Last night, he'd set his alarm for eleven thirty, but right now his eyes are open and it's definitely, decidedly not golden enough outside to be eleven. Stiles frowns, squinting as his silent phone, and wonders what had woken him up.

The question is answered by an insistent banging at the front door of his apartment.

"The fuck…?" he grumbles, rolling out of bed and almost falling onto the floor in an effort to get his bearings. He slowly makes his way to the front door, conserving his energy so that he can scream at whoever had woken him up this early.

But when he swings open the door, Lydia is standing out there in the early morning sunlight, her exhausted eyes finding him instantly. He opens his mouth to speak, but she rushes at him, her arms finding his middle and squeezing tight as she buries her face in his chest.

Surprised, he instinctively puts his arms around her only to find that she is shaking a little bit in his embrace. Stiles strokes his hand lightly up and down her back as he waits for her to stop crying, dragging her backwards a little bit until she's in the house and he can close the door.

He leads Lydia over to the couch and sits her down on it, wordlessly handing her a box of tissues. There's honestly a million reasons why she could be crying, but Stiles doesn't allow himself to dwell on any of them, instead focusing on the mascara on her face and the tired look in her eyes. He's never seen her quite so disheveled, right down to her messy hair and the face that is almost completely lacking makeup.

"I'm sorry," she tells him over and over again. "I'm sorry. My mom… she was in the hospital all night… we thought… I thought… and I'm not ready for her to—"

"Oh, god," he says, grabbing her and pulling her tight against himself again. "I know. I know, Lydia."

"I don't want to lose her, she's my _mom_ , and I don't know how you did it, Stiles, I'm an _adult_ and I can't fathom losing... you were _eight_ , and I couldn't stop thinking about how you were eight when you had to just watch her die."

In a way, he thinks he may have had it easier. But he doesn't say that.

"It was awful, getting that phone call was _awful_ , and I could barely move and Jackson wasn't… he wasn't _enough_ , he's never enough anymore, I don't…"

He doesn't even want to hear this, so he grabs her hand and wraps it in both of his and squeezes, letting her know that he's there for her— hoping that'll be enough.

Lydia breathes out slowly.

"I'm sorry," she says, tears still flowing freely. "Stiles, I'm so sorry."

"Shit, Lydia, you don't have to apologize for showing up here and crying over that. Over _anything,_ really, but especially not that."

"I'm not apologizing for that." She leans her forehead against his shoulder, catching her breath. "Stiles, I was sitting in that hospital and Jackson was sitting right next to me, and _you_ were the person I wanted there. I felt so alone, and if you were there, I wouldn't have. I'm _so fucking sorry_ that I didn't wait for you, Stiles. I love you so much. I want to _be_ with you. I want to be able to call you when my mom's in the hospital and I want you to show up and hold me and I want—"

His soul is taking off, but he grounds himself to the couch and just strokes her hair, feeling desperate to climb out of this universe in which they get so royally fucked up on their way to finding each other. He wants to go back. Take it all back. And get to a place where they can be them from the _start_.

"It's gonna be okay," he says, kissing the top of her head. He's never been one to genuinely believe that. But maybe, with Lydia, things can be different. Maybe, with her, things can turn out okay, and everything can end will, and he's not going to spend the rest of his life _waiting._

She nods shudderingly, seeming just so tired, so he puts one arm under her knees as she wraps her arms around his neck. He walks her over to his bed and lays her gently on her side of it, watching as she immediately goes for the pillow, burying her face there, her back shivering as she continues to cry. He thinks she's probably a little sleep deprived, so he doesn't say anything else about them as he helps her out of her pants, rolling them slowly down her legs as to not disturb her. Lydia takes off her shirt and then wiggles under the covers, patting them with the flat of her hand.

"Come back to bed with me," she says pleadingly, her cheeks still stained with tears. He nods, sliding in with her, pulling her against his warmth. Lydia slings a leg over him and tucks herself as close to him as she can, still breathing shakily. "Stiles, I need—"

"You need to sleep, Lydia. You need to go to sleep. We'll talk about this later."

He tells himself that he's right, that this will come up again, and someday they're going to make it all okay and this part of their story will feel like a bad dream.

She frowns for a moment, but then she nods, kissing his shoulder before she settles in to fall asleep. In a few moments, her slow, rhythmic breathing kicks into gear and Stiles knows that she's out. He kisses the top of her head once before tucking himself into her body and drifting off after her.

* * *

They don't talk about it later.

Not the next day.

Not the day after that.

She wakes up and brings him coffee and all of her makeup has been fixed and she's only saying goodbye as she ducks out the door, back to her husband.

Always, always back to her husband.

* * *

 

Things go back to normal, if what they had before is normal.

Stiles goes to brunch with Lauren. He eats dinners with Allison and Scott. He makes sure his dad eats. He lies, lies, lies.

Lydia is still the color blue.

* * *

 

It's almost 1 o'clock in the morning by the time Stiles' phone whirls to life in his hand. He's barely clinging onto wakefulness, a TV show in the background as he curls up on his couch, waiting for her to call. It had been a _long_ day at work, but Lydia always calls once Jackson is asleep, and Stiles isn't going to stop being there for her just because he's tired. He can stay awake for her.

The only problem is that usually, when she doesn't call around 10:30, it means that she's doing… other things. Stuff that Stiles doesn't want to think about. Like, ever.

Oh god.

"Hello?" he says blearily.

"Hi," whispers Lydia. "I'm so sorry, Stiles, Andrew was feeling sick all night and he kept insisting on sleeping with the two of us and finally Jackson lost patience and carried him back to his bed and came back in here and fell asleep, but I'm so sorry."

"Nah," he says, scrubbing over his face tiredly. "It's okay. You were being a mom."

"I know, I just—"

"Lydia. Don't worry about it."

She hesitates.

"Do you want me to talk to you tonight?"

He smiles at the thought.

"Sure."

"Get in bed," Lydia instructs. "I know you're not; I can hear the TV."

"Top Chef," Stiles tells her, sliding off of the couch and stumbling back towards his bedroom, stepping on the pant legs of his pajama bottoms a few times in the darkness. "So that I can think of some other shit to cook you that will wow you into loving me more."

"Impossible," she says affectionately. He smiles as he collapses onto his side of the bed and pulls his covers up around his shoulders.

"So," he says. "You're gonna talk to me?"

"You do it every night. It's my turn."

"Is it gonna wake him up?"

"I'm in the bathroom."

"Oh."

"So," she says, purposefully trying to mask her voice in brightness. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Hmmm." He nuzzles into his pillow, getting more comfortable. "Let's start with… what are you wearing?"

"My nighttime corset," Lydia informs him drily. "The one with all the garters and bows."

"You got your whip with you?"

"Sadly, no, I left it at your place."

"That's okay, you can just use the spare riding crop."

"I would, but it clashes with the six inch stilettos and fishnet tights."

"Hey Lydia?"

"Yes, Stiles."

"What are you actually wearing?"

"Panties and a tank top."

He sighs into his pillow.

"Nice."

"And you?"

"Pajama bottoms."

"Nice," she echoes.

He flips over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"How did work go today?"

Lydia takes in an excited breath.

"The testing is going perfectly. I fixed the hiccup from last week, no problem. Today was about getting right back on schedule. Only lost a few days, really."

"You're brilliant," he says.

She laughs sweetly.

"I know that."

"I know you know, but telling you makes me feel like I contribute somehow, so it's more for me than it is for you."

More for his peace of mind, really. He needs her to know. He's scared she doesn't hear it enough.

"Arrest anybody cool today?"

"Oh, we actually got a dealer that we've been going after forever. It felt really fucking good. He sells to kids, which is even worse, and the stuff isn't even what he says it is— it's usually laced with a bunch of other shit. What a dick."

"You know, he could be a _lovely_ person and you're just not giving him a chance," she jokes.

"I get where you're coming from," Stiles replies, mock seriously.

"Aha. Then why did you call him a dick?"

"I mean, he really is a dick. His name's Richard."

A few months ago, she would have rolled her eyes at that joke. Now she snickers along with him.

"Stiles," Lydia says carefully. "What do you do for Christmas every year?"

He scratches his belly as he thinks, fingers brushing through the hairs at his naval.

"Umm… I drive home to see my dad and Scott and Scott's mom. And we all have Christmas together, and now the baby's there too, which means we spend hours doting over him and he literally has no awareness of what's going on and he's definitely more interested in the wrapping paper than he is interested in the presents we spent eight million bucks buying him. But it's nice. I make pies, Melissa makes ham, my dad watches the rest of us get tipsy and makes sure none of us run into the street. Allison's not breastfeeding anymore, so she can drink this year, which is exciting."

"Oh, okay."

Lydia sounds disappointed.

"What?" says Stiles immediately.

"It's nothing," she responds dismissively.

"If you wanted me to believe you, you should have taken acting classes, because that was a Razzie worthy performance."

"Would you like me to go back in time and take performing electives in college just to avoid this moment?"

"Lydia."

"I have to stay here over Christmas and I thought maybe you would too."

His heart stutters slightly.

"What?"

"Jackson's parents moved to Arizona, so we usually go visit them. But I have samples that need to be watched at home, and it's going to be Christmas week that I need to stay in and work on my labs. So I told Jackson that I couldn't go to his mom's, and—"

"And you're gonna be alone over Christmas?"

"I'm going to have the house to myself, yes."

"Lydia, are you asking me to…" He trails off, uncertain.

"I'm asking you to come stay with me. But you have _plans_ , you absolutely don't have to, Stiles."

"Yes," he says immediately. "I would love to spend Christmas with you."

"You have other people," she points out.

"I can see them any time."

"You can see me—" She stops herself before she finishes the sentence that they both know isn't true. This is a one time thing. If he doesn't take it, they're never going to get it again. "Are you sure?"

"About _you_?" Stiles asks, laughing disbelievingly. "Yeah. Always."

He can picture her nodding, biting her lip at her phone as she sits on the floor of her big, fancy bathroom at home.

"I really want this," she admits, whispering it to him like it's a dirty secret. To him, it's one of the most concrete things she's ever been able to say to him, and he clings to it. "You'll cook for me?"

"And we can watch movies."

"I can kick your ass at online trivia games."

"Please, like you _can_."

"Lie in front of the fireplace."

"Fall asleep together. Stay that way the whole night without having to worry about getting up in time."

"Yes," she says breathily. "That. Definitely that."

They're both silent for a moment.

"I gotta fall asleep, though. Work tomorrow."

"Okay," she murmurs.

"Tell me a story?"

He can hear the smile in her voice as she says "What kind of story?"

"One about you," he says. "And it's gotta have angst."

"Angst, huh?" she teases.

"Oh yeah," Stiles hums. "I mean, that's the best part."

"The best part of stories?"

"No," he replies, shaking his head. "The best part of getting to the happy ending."

* * *

 

Stiles stays in his car for longer than he is strictly proud of when he pulls up to the Whittemore house.

House may be a slight underestimation. It's more of a manor; more of a trophy than a home. It's in a gated community where a plethora of pretentious people buy houses specifically to show off their money. And, judging by Lydia's brief descriptions of Jackson, that's exactly the type of person he is. He seems like the type of person who would hire someone to maintain their giant lawn, keeping it the perfect green color, and hire somebody else to build a fancy pool that heats up in the winter and then literally never use it.

Lydia had seemed like that at first glance. But she _isn't_. She isn't the diamond studs that she wears, or the expensive looking clothes. She is her mind, and her job, and her passion, and her hair tied up into a braid as she kicks his ass at ping pong. She is more than what this is. And he hates to think of her cooped up in this gated community, forced into a life that doesn't feel like it should belong to her.

"We don't have to stay here," Lydia says as soon as she opens the door. She looks a little too fancy for staying at home just the two of them— her hair has been curled, makeup applied expertly, and she's wearing a light summer dress with a cardigan over it as an afterthought.

Stiles blinks in surprise at how abrupt she's being, but she's chewing nervously on her bottom lip and it looks like she's been combing her fingers through her curls because some of them are more limp than the others.

"What?" Stiles asks, walking into the house and closing the door behind himself so that Lydia doesn't have to do it.

"I realized that it's _weird_ to have you here, I mean this is where I live and we spend most of our time at your place. Well, actually, all of our time at your place. Literally all of it."

"We don't exactly have another option," Stiles points out. "And, besides, don't you have to stay here with your labs?"

Lydia still looks tense.

"Yes, but, I don't know, I could… commute."

"But then we'd be missing out on time together," he reminds her. "Lydia, if you don't want me in your house—"

She cuts him off by standing on her tiptoes and kissing him, winding her fingers into his hair and tugging him tighter against her body.

"Of course I want you here," she murmurs, pulling back and remaining on her toes so that she can press her forehead against his. "I'm sorry, I just… I think I'm a little nervous."

He laughs delightedly.

"Because of me?"

"Mhm." She nods. "You make me nervous."

" _Still?_ "

Lydia shrugs, a little helpless.

"I'm not the best at getting used to you."

He kisses her again.

"Same. Same, same, same."

His mouth moves to her neck, kissing her reverentially, and Lydia sighs and pushes him back against the door.

"What do you wanna do?" she whispers. He chuckles against her skin, sucking on her neck, wondering if she's going to bat him away because Jackson's going to be gone for a whole _week_. Lydia groans, tilting her neck so that he has better access. "No, I'm actually asking."

"I'm just trying to get you to calm down," he admits. "So I was thinking we could make out for a little bit and then I could raid your fridge and see if you got the ingredients I told you to grab for dinner."

She narrows her eyes.

"I _knew_ you didn't trust me."

Stiles quirks an eyebrow.

"Have you seen how pretty you are? Of course I don't trust you. You could be slowly murdering me every time you touch me and I'd probably just lean into the skid."

"I'm actually running about eight million experiments on you each time we sleep together."

"See? I fucking _knew_ it."

"You're a genius," she mocks. "Now kiss me," Lydia adds, her smile mischievous. "It's for science."

* * *

 

"Show me where the olive oil is," Stiles instructs. From where she is perched on top of the island, Lydia frowns at him, annoyed at being interrupted from her current occupation of munching on the edamame that Stiles had set out.

"It's over there," she says dismissively, flicking her ponytail impatiently to the side as she roots through the bowl for a piece with lots of salt on it.

"Specific," he teases, and Lydia looks up from the bowl and beams brilliantly at him.

"I like challenging you," she says before taking a sip of red wine from the glass that is set beside her on the counter.

He bends down, opens a cabinet, and comes up with the olive oil relatively easily.

"You sure you just didn't want to watch my ass as I bent over?"

Lydia's mouth falls open dramatically.

"I am absolutely _horrified_ that you would _accuse_ me of such _blatant—_ "

"That's the exact reason, isn't it."

"You got it."

She grins cheekily at him, kicking her heels against the cabinets under the island, and he leans over to kiss her briefly on the lips before he snatches a tea towel from the counter and throws it over his shoulder, returning to the concoction on the stove.

It's his third night at Lydia's house, and he's sufficiently learned his way around her kitchen. But he's also learned his way around Lydia, too. He knows the color of her toothbrush, and he's watched her do her nighttime skin care regime, and he's snuck up on her in the shower and joined her. They've done the lazy morning sex thing, they've talked through movies instead of paying attention to what's happening on the screen, she'd even let him watch her put on makeup.

It hits him, over and over and over again, that Lydia is his soulmate.

Which is why being in this house is already starting to feel like sandpaper to him. The fact that Lydia had moved on without him, without even waiting for him, had left Stiles with an open wound that hadn't had to heal once Lydia had started falling for him. He hasn't felt the need to treat it much, but now he's _here_ and this is the life that Lydia had built with someone else. A life that is so vastly different from the one they two would have shared together.

He thinks about a little yellow house and a big dog to run in the woods with, and instead of a baby's room, there would be a bigger office for her. She could fill it with books and research and he would frame every single achievement and accomplishment because they would be a testament to the person who he had fallen in love with.

They wouldn't be wealthy like this. But it would be nice. It would be cozy. He could have made her _happy_.

"Um, Stiles?"

"What."

"I know I'm not the cook in this relationship, but I don't think it's supposed to smell like that."

" _Fuck_ ," he swears as he turns to the burner and flicks it off. Dinner isn't ruined, but it was definitely a close one, and he's suddenly so overcome in fury and disgruntlement and all he wants to do is run away from her.

Lydia slips almost silently off of the island and walks over to put her arms around his waist.

"Is something wrong?"

Stiles shakes his head, feeling stifled by her touch.

"No."

"Stiles," she says gently.

"Lydia… why did you marry him? Why the _fuck_ didn't you wait for me?"

He can feel her body tense up in shock behind his, and it allows some sort of vindictive satisfaction to course through him. She backs up slowly, snatching the bottle of wine from the counter and pouring herself some more just for something to do with her hands.

"I don't know how you went this long without asking me," she admits, voice determinedly steady.

"I didn't want you to run away from me."

Lydia turns to look at him, her mouth slightly open, her eyes apologetic. Then she backs herself against the counter and slides down to the floor, crossing her legs and clutching her wine glass. Stiles sits on the floor opposite her, back against the parallel cabinet.

"I couldn't if I wanted to."

"Tell me," he insists, voice rough and aching. This _hurts_. This moment _hurts._

"My parents were soulmates," Lydia says. "Did you know that?"

He nods.

"You told me."

"They were soulmates, and they got married, and everything was supposed to be okay, and then… and then it wasn't. The reason my older sister was a freshman in college when I was a freshman in high school is because I was a last ditch attempt to save my parents' marriage. And I wasn't good enough. Being pretty wasn't enough, being intelligent wasn't enough… no matter what I did, it wasn't enough to glue them together long enough to not fuck me up. And it stayed with me… just… for the rest of my life. Through their whole disastrous divorce, through every call my sister ignored from me because she wanted nothing to do with our family, through every awkward dinner I had to sit down to with my dad and every time I saw my mother cry. They were _soulmates_ , Stiles. And they were still too selfish to stay together. They were too selfish to make the choice to keep loving someone other than themselves."

"So you chose to give up," says Stiles harshly.

"No," Lydia says emphatically. "I didn't… I didn't choose to give up. Stiles, the likelihood of meeting your soulmate is so low in the first place. I didn't know if I'd ever find you. And this tiny, vindictive part of me didn't ever want to, because the soulmarks never brought anything good to my parents, so why would I want to bother with them? They didn't _mean_ anything to me. And then I met Jackson in elementary school and he pulled my pigtails and snapped my bra straps and did all the things boys were supposed to do for the girls they liked, and it fell into place. I didn't think about my soulmate when he was… feeling me up for the first time in the backseat of his dad's car, or when he was inviting me to prom with him. I thought about being the girlfriend of the captain of the lacrosse team. I thought about the fact that I had started dating him because it seemed like the right thing to do, and then it had spiralled into something I depended on. And once I depended on him, I never wanted to let go. And we made it so that I never had to."

"What about _his_ soulmate?"

Lydia closes her eyes.

"He doesn't have a mark, Stiles."

He lets out a derisive noise.

"Right. Of course. So he has no idea what's it's like. He just… takes."

"Hey," Lydia says sharply. "I'm not an object or a possession. He didn't _take_ me, Stiles. I agreed to go to college as his girlfriend. I agreed to marry him. I agreed to have his child. And, in the end, it wasn't because I was angry at my soulmate or because I didn't believe in the marks. I _knew_ he wasn't my soulmate when I married him. And I chose him anyways, because he asked and I loved him."

There's a hot, frustrated tear sliding down Stiles' cheek, and when he sees tears brimming in Lydia's eyes even as her nostrils flare angrily

"Do you regret it?"

She shakes her head, avoiding his eyes.

"It's not that simple."

"Do you regret it," he repeats slowly.

She swallows hard.

"Yes," she whispers.

Something inside of him seems to loosen and fall down as he looks across at her.

"God. _God_. This is so _fucked up_."

She nods in agreement.

They can't look at each other as they eat dinner, they don't talk over the movie they watch later, and Stiles sleeps on the opposite side of his bed in the guest room that night, wondering if Lydia would rather return to her bed in her real bedroom. She doesn't, though. She stays with him, just like he had agreed to stay with her all those months ago.

* * *

 

Lydia's hair is even longer when it's wet, tumbling down her body and dipping onto the comforter of her and Jackson's bed as she tells Stiles a story animatedly, ringing it out as she does so.

"Can I brush it out?" Stiles asks, interrupting her. She tilts her head to the side, looking at him for a moment, then nods and reaches over to offer him her brush, looking almost shy as she does so.

He sits behind her on the plain white comforter, the bed dipping slightly under his weight as he sits against the headboard. Lydia moves back so that he's cradling her in between his legs, his fingers wrapped around the brush as he begins to move it carefully through her hair.

It's darker when it's wet, more like a tomato than it is when dry, he thinks, wanting to laugh at that observation. It's so thick that it's full of tangles, but Stiles doesn't mind at all. It allows him to touch it longer, working the brush through it painstakingly slowly. He thinks about doing this if they had a daughter, and how he would learn to braid for her, and maybe he'd practice on Lydia first. If they _did_ have a daughter, he would want her hair to be just like this. This long, this beautiful.

Actually, he would basically want her to be a miniature version of Lydia, because there is nobody in this world as beautiful as Lydia Martin is, and Stiles doesn't care if his DNA gets passed along just as long as somebody else is walking around with Lydia's.

When he's finished brushing it out, she turns around to kiss him, straddling his body, and _that's_ when her phone goes off, vibrating loudly on the bed between the two of them. Lydia groans in annoyance, but then sees Jackson's name popping up on the screen and widens her eyes in alarm.

"I have to talk to him," she says apologetically. "It's been a few days. Would you mind very much if—?"

"No, no," Stiles says hurriedly. "Of course not. I'll just…"

"Yes, thanks," Lydia says gratefully. He gets up, walking towards the door, but doesn't leave in time to avoid hearing her say "Hello?"

"MOM!" shouts a little boy's eager voice, and it stabs Stiles in the stomach to hear how excited he is.

Right. There's already somebody walking around with Lydia's DNA.

"Andrew!" she says delightedly. "Hi, baby! How's grandma's?"

"We had ice cream for dinner last night."

"I'm sure daddy just loved that," comments Lydia drily.

And that's definitely enough of that.

Stiles walks down the hallway towards Lydia's office, where she'd shown him the work she's been doing with an eager smile on her face and eyes that were thankful he was letting her talk about it as much as she wanted to. She'd gone on about it in great detail for nearly an hour, and he has a feeling she doesn't get to speak about it as much as she would like.

He hadn't paid the other rooms in the hallway much attention before, which is why he probably hadn't noticed the room down the hallway with a little blue sign hanging over it, with the word ' _W_ ' spelled out in bright red lettering. Stiles squints at it for a moment, trying to decide whether he wants to go in. Then he places his hand on the handle and gently pushes down, feeling like he's intruding on something even as the door clicks open and reveals the bedroom of Lydia's little boy.

The whole room is covered in elaborate stencils of different planets. His comforter is a collection of stars that match the glow-in-the-dark stars that are on the ceiling, which makes sense. Lydia has told him about how much she loved space when she was a little girl, and it's only logical that she would pass this onto her child. There's a bookshelf over stuffed with books, both fiction and nonfiction— the kid seems to have a strong affinity for Magic Treehouse novels— and there's a giant shelf on the wall stocked with various soccer trophies. It's all very clean, like nobody has ever lived in it. It feels like an almost sterile homage to the life that Stiles will never be apart of.

This. This is the one thing he absolutely cannot touch.

He backs out of the room and stumbles downstairs, leaving the door ajar. The bottle of rum that he had been saving for Christmas night is next to the fridge, and he grabs it and begins downing it without bothering to mix it with the eggnog he had bought for this specific purpose.

Stiles sits on the couch in front of the television and stares broodily at the blank screen until he hears Lydia padding softly down the stairs.

She doesn't say anything. Just wiggles the bottle out of his hands and crawls into his lap and lets him hide his face on her chest, moving with her breaths because of how closely they are pressed together.

They stay like that until he is sober enough to pretend that everything is okay.

* * *

 

It's the first time Stiles has ever actually had to start a fire by himself. He's way too fucking proud of it. Lydia keeps wood right next to the fireplace, and Stiles had thrown a whole stack in before lighting it and letting out a loud whoop that had caused Lydia to burst into laughter at the sight of him dancing around in his pajama bottoms, sweeping her up for a kiss before releasing her and continuing to dance.

It had been a good moment, one that glowed gold with the light of the fire, but now he and Lydia are lounging on a blanket in front of the fireplace and it is somehow softer. It's dimmer in a way that's comfortable, as Stiles sits with his head in Lydia's lap and she strokes his hair over and over again, the fingers of her left hand occasionally drifting down to his cheek to touch him there.

"When did he stop drinking?" she's saying. Normally, talking about this would feel so impossible, but this is the calmest Stiles has felt in months. He noses at her hip before answering, closing his eyes as he speaks.

"I was ten. He threw a bottle at my head and it almost hit me. He didn't drink much anymore after that. It took years before he even looked at a bottle."

Lydia nods, biting her bottom lip as her fingers glide down his face and cup his jaw, turning his face up to her.

"How did that affect your personal relationship with alcohol?"

"I definitely didn't binge drink as much until I was older," Stiles admits. "Which Scott was cool with because he's the kind of guy who worries about what his mom would think if she found out about it."

Lydia laughs.

"My education on the subject of Scott McCall is an exercise in underestimation."

"The trick is to think about what you would do and then know that he would probably do it a million times more thoughtfully."

Her hands stop in his hair, and he raises his eyebrows up at her before she leans down and presses a small kiss against his lips, her thumb stroking his cheek as she closes her eyes and slowly, carefully offers him this bit of herself.

"Stiles," she murmurs. "I need you to know something."

"Yeah?"

She nods, her eyes avoiding his.

Sensing that it's important, he sits up, watching her carefully before she takes a breath and speaks.

"No matter what happens, I need you to know that… that I've never been in love with anybody like I'm in love with you." He doesn't know why he's surprised, but suddenly he's terrified for her. Because he hasn't been in love with anybody else the way he's in love with her, but he also isn't married.

Maybe this is why she feels more his than she actually is.

"I've never—"

"No, you don't understand," she says, shaking her head. "Stiles, I've been in one relationship my whole life. And I remember my high school best friends talking about how giddy and happy their boyfriends made them, and I thought they were _insane_. I thought they were lying. I never thought… I never believed that something like this could be real. To me, this isn't reality. This is… a chink in the matrix. This isn't something that happens in this universe." He opens his mouth, and she raises a hand to stop him. "I need you to understand that I didn't walk into this believing that this was possible. And you _made_ me believe that it is."

"Lydia—"

"I mean, my parents, they had their… whatever. And with Jackson, it was always sensible and easy and I've always been sexually attracted to him, of course, but this? This is… I still don't believe it's real, half of the time. If I felt any less for you, I would never sacrifice the things that I do. But every time I go to you, I am making a conscious choice to do so. You understand that, right?"

He puts his hand around the back of her head and leans forward to kiss her, hating the fact that she hasn't been letting him speak.

"I've had _people_ ," he says. "I've dated people, I've slept with them, but Lydia it wasn't… I don't know if I was holding myself back or something, but you are… you are definitevely my soulmate. Regardless of these dumb marks on our skin, okay? It's you."

She smiles, albeit a bit sadly, but it's enough.

"So does that mean you're really okay with spending the holiday with me instead of your dad and Scott?"

"Pfft," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "Please. I see those guys all the time. Screw tradition."

"We can make new traditions," she suggests, peering up at him through her eyelashes as though this suggestion is too vulnerable for her to make while looking at him dead on.

" _Yes_ ," he agrees emphatically. "Yeah. Sounds good." He pauses. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

Stiles follows her as she lies down in front of the fire, tugging her shirt over her head as she goes, leaving her torso bare to him.

"This is a start," whispers Lydia.

"Really, _really_ good start," he decides, lowering his mouth to her chest and kissing the freckle by her sternum before moving across to the swell of her breast.

"Well," she says mischievously. "Just so long as you finish."

"Ugh," Stiles says, resting his forehead on her chest and giving himself a moment. "If you keep using wordplay during sex, that is _not_ going to be a problem."

* * *

 

It is Stiles' _moral_ responsibility to wake Lydia up on Christmas morning by jumping on her bed.

Stiles Stilinski doesn't really have many moral standards, as long as nobody dies in the process of him getting what he wants. But getting Lydia up on Christmas morning by bouncing on her bed and hollering "WAKE THE FUCK UP, IT'S CHRISTMAS" is an ethical _necessity_. If he didn't do it, he'd be robbing her, himself, and the _world_ of something very good and pure and beautiful.

Even more beautiful than Lydia when she wakes up in the morning with her face screwed up in fury and her eyes unable to open all the way because the light is too bright.

"Fun fact: I'm going to kill you," Lydia says flatly as Stiles lets out a delighted squee at the feeling of her tugging on his leg, attempting to trip him so that he falls down onto the bed next to her. After a particularly dramatic bounce, he finally gives up, falling flat on his ass and crossing his arms and legs simultaneously with a flourish.

"Hey Lydia," he says, beaming.

"What?"

"Did you know that it's Christmas?"

"Ugh."

She pushes him off of the bed, and he lands on the floor with a thunk, then pops right up again.

"Morning breath kiss, I'm too fast, you can't stop me," he sings as he ducks in for it, then pulls away victoriously, leaping towards the door of the guest bedroom. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"More sleep," Lydia suggests. "That's what I want for breakfast."

"Fine, I'll make you a pancake _and_ a waffle. You don't have to beg. Have some dignity, woman."

He skips down the stairs, throws some Christmas music onto Lydia's bluetooth speaker, and begins dancing around the kitchen as he prepares the pancake batter. He's in the middle of shaking his ass to Last Christmas when he hears Lydia walking down the stairs, her small feet moving quickly against the wood.

"Merry Christmas," she says from the doorway.

"That's the spirit," Stiles replies absently from where he is chopping up strawberries to add to the pancakes.

He hears Lydia let out a small laugh.

"No. Stiles? Merry Christmas."

Something in her voice makes him turn around, and when he does, he finds her in the doorway to the kitchen, smirking at him. She's wearing a see through lacy red top with a dark green ribbon right under the bust, and an open middle so that he can see her belly button very clearly where it sits above her lacy red see through panties.

He blinks.

"Do I get to unwrap you?"

Lydia's tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip.

"You can basically do whatever you want to me."

"My present isn't this good," he blurts out.

She snorts, then moves closer to him, sliding her hand up his chest and leaving kisses on his neck as he puts his hand stiffly on her back and tries to remember what he was doing before she walked into the room.

"That's okay," Lydia demures. "I have a santa hat for you."

(She actually does.)

They spend the day watching bad Christmas movies and eating Chinese food. Around four, they end up putting whipped cream to creative use, which Stiles decides is going to have to be a repeat experiment because _holy hell._

Lydia's actual present for him is a R2-D2 cookie jar that moves around and makes beeping and whirring noises. The noise that Stiles makes when he sees it for the first time makes him wonder if Lydia's ever going to sleep with him again, but she just stifles her laugh into a pillow.

Stiles presents her with a book that is probably the most expensive goddamn thing he's ever gotten— it's astronomy based mythology, leather bound, with pictures. He can see Lydia drooling even as she opens it, and he definitely thinks she smells it when he turns around to put wrapping paper into the trash bin.

He also gives her a nerdy neuron pendant, which he expects her to laugh about because it doesn't go with the diamond studs that she wears normally, but instead Lydia puts it on right away and doesn't take it off for the rest of the day.

That night, they go to opposite ends of the house to make phone calls to their respective families.

"Where are you?" Stiles' dad asks in confusion, leaning forward and scrutinizing the background. "Are you in your condo?"

"Nah," Stiles says casually. "Visiting a friend."

"You said you were sick."

"I felt good enough to leave the house."

Lying leaves a bitter feeling in Stiles' stomach, but what exactly is he supposed to say to his dad? 'Sorry, dude. I love you and all, but I'm dating a married woman, and this is my one chance to pretend like we're a real couple.'

Scott and Allison get on after his dad does, taking the phone into the other room.

"Are you okay?" Allison asks, concerned as her eyes dance all around his face, checking for damage.

"Yeah. I'm fine. How's the baby?"

"Stiles, are you _okay_?" Allison asks again, emphatic in her worry. "You have to leave tomorrow."

He cringes.

"Yeah. I know."

"Are you sure—?"

"It's too late now, isn't it?" he says harshly. Allison snaps her mouth shut. "I made my choice almost a year ago, Allison. She's worth it."

She shakes her head, not looking like she believes him. Stiles doesn't think it's a coincidence that Allison has never met Lydia, despite the fact that Scott has spent time with her on numerous occasions.

"We just want to make sure you're alright, buddy," Scott says smoothly. "You're all alone on Christmas."

"I'm not," Stiles says, shaking his head. "I'm with Lydia."

He hangs up too abruptly after that, returning to the living room with a cloud of anger hanging over his head. Lydia silently returns fifteen minutes later and sits on the couch next to him, still caught up in her own thoughts.

When she slides her hand in his, it feels like returning to reality. It feels like settling back into real life.

Stiles doesn't know what they're going to do tomorrow.

* * *

 

They don't sleep that night. They lie in each other's arms and murmur quietly to each other and everything feels like it's falling apart but Stiles doesn't have to say it because Lydia's arms are keeping him held together. It won't be until later, when he's gone and there's nothing she can do to protect him from it, that he will truly feel the mess that they have built together.

When morning comes, Lydia slips out of bed and showers without Stiles, as if she is preparing to wash off all the evidence of being in love with him. It makes him bitter in a way that he hasn't been since the start of the week, and Stiles paces the house agitatedly during her shower, ending up in a small hallway that he hasn't been to yet because it leads to Jackson's office at the back of the house.

He only gets one foot in before he realizes that the whole hallway is covered in pictures of Lydia's family. The first one is of her and Jackson on their wedding day, smiling prettily at the camera. They look happy. They don't look radiant, he thinks smugly. But then he sees the next picture, with their hands entwined, showing off the brand new rings. And he thinks about the fact that Lydia had picked out that dress for Jackson, decided to live her life for Jackson, boxed herself in for _Jackson_.

From the very start, Stiles has hated Jackson, but seeing a young Lydia standing next to him blissfully unaware of her choice sets something off in him that makes his heart begin to pound against his chest.

Without thinking about it, he's out of the hallway, ignoring all of the other pictures in favor of dashing up the stairs and bursting into the master bedroom. Lydia has just gotten out of the shower, her hair dry and in a bun as she sits on her bed and rubs lotion into her legs.

"Hey," she says amicably. "Do you want to—?"

He cuts her off by kissing her, drawing back only to pull off his shirt and remove her towel from her body.

They haven't had sex in Lydia and Jackson's bed, but Stiles doesn't think Lydia minds from how quickly she gets wet as he touches her. She's just as eager as he is to get him inside of her, both of them letting out almost simultaneously relieved sighs before he begins to pull in and out, trying to make it last, trying not to come, trying to leave _some_ sort of mark on her with his hands on her hips and his mouth spewing words of encouragement, begging her to come for him.

He doesn't meet her eyes. It isn't intimate. It is rough and he's _sad_. He wants to find himself inside of her, but instead he gets a little lost in the scent of the bed that doesn't smell enough like him and her to quite feel like the home that they usually create together.

Stiles gets off before she does, pulling out and coming on her skin despite the fact that she'd just taken a shower. He knows he should feel regretful, but when some of it gets on the sheets, he's just satisfied.

Jackson is coming home today, and Stiles has to leave Lydia in this house with him, and those _pictures_ , and the life that's hers but isn't.

He is _sick_ of the reminders that she isn't his. Because she is. So why isn't she? Why can't she be?

"You okay?" she asks.

And this is it. This is his opportunity to say it. To tell her that he remembers what she'd said on the morning that her mother had gotten sick, and he wants to talk about it. Wants to ask if she would be willing to chase it with him, because she'd said she was, and he thinks they're due for some sort of change. They're still doing this. They're _still_ doing this.

"Yeah." He shrugs. "Fine."

Lydia swallows.

"Okay," she says meekly, and with a pang, he realizes that he'd made her feel small.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, lifting her hand to place an apologetic kiss on the wrist where her soulmark is. "I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head, words caught in her throat, neuron necklace glinting against her skin.

Together, they strip the sheets off of her bed and carry them down to the laundry room. Stiles holds Lydia's hand as she puts the sheets in the washing machine and starts it, erasing what they'd done.

Somehow, watching the fabric get tossed amongst the water and soap just makes him dig his heels in harder.

He still feels the same way he did at the start of all this. In the end, he's not going to be the one to leave.

* * *

 

" _220_. _Imagine someone saying 'our fundamental situation is joyful.' Now imagine_ believing _it._

 _221\. Or forget belief: imagine_ feeling _, even for a moment, that it were true."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you'll leave a comment and let me know what you think :) 
> 
> NEXT UP, probably more famous AU because this angst has made me sad af.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Welcome to the third and final part of Having Lost You. This is what we've been building up to. I hope you enjoy the extreme stydia angst. 
> 
> As per usual, a quick warning: This fic doesn't romanticize infidelity in real life, I just really wanted to explore this. It’s 100% AU for a reason— I obviously don’t condone it or see this happening to Stiles and Lydia in the reality of canon. Although, for me, the fact that it’s Jackson (and I hate him) makes it easier to stomach, which is why I threw him in there. 
> 
> All credit for the numbered quotes found in this chapter can be given to Maggie Nelson, author of Bluets. I didn’t write them. This fic is an homage to that book; her style astounds me and blows me away. 
> 
> Also, suggested listening for this chapter is The Lonely Hour by Sam Smith. It really fits Stiles’ mood the whole chapter, and the words are often hella on point. Just something to consider while you’re reading it! 
> 
> Btw, this chapter is getting posted today because, by the _coolest_ coincidence of my life, chapter 1 got posted 6/6 and chapter 2 got posted 7/7. So today, 8/8, is the day the final chapter comes out. I'm pretty pumped about this. 
> 
> Well. Here ya go. Don’t hate me.

" _81\. What I know: When I met you, a blue rush began. I want you to know, I no longer hold you responsible."_

* * *

 

 

"I can't believe you hate Darren that much. I mean, really, he's not _that_ bad."

"Darren is a dick," Stiles says sincerely. "If my dad had bossed my mom around like that, he would have gotten slapped in the face."

From the other end of the phone line, he hears Lydia laugh quietly. The sound intermingles oddly with the loud, raucous snores that Jackson is emitting.

"It was the time period! In a remake, he never would have been able to treat her like that. I mean, they were the first married TV couple to share a bed. Times change."

"Does the time period really make it excusable, though?" asks Stiles. "She gave up everything for Darren. It sucked."

"She wanted to," Lydia says softly.

"He shouldn't have asked in the first place," argues Stiles, turning onto his stomach so that he can yell at his headboard to feel like he's actually talking to someone. "Magic was an integral part of who Samantha was."

"Marriage is too," Lydia reminds him. "She loved Darren. She wanted to make him happy."

"Maybe she would be happier if he would have let her be herself."

He doesn't actually know what they're arguing about, but he can feel it heat up inside of him. And it's _dumb_ , because it's just Bewitched, it doesn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things. But he keeps picturing Lydia as Samantha Stevens, downtrodden housewife who just wants to use her magic but isn't allowed to because of the ignorance of her husband.

"She didn't give anything up. It was just compromised," says Lydia. "You'd understand if you were married."

His stomach lurches, and he swallows down the bile that has gathered within him. Something in his chest pounds too violently, too angrily, but Stiles shoves it down, ignoring the warning that is ringing through his head. He wants to yell at her for being condescending; for picking at the one wound that's _her_ fault. But instead, he forces a tiny laugh out of his mouth.

"I mean, I may not be married, but I know that magic is fucking _cool_ ," teases Stiles. "Imagine being able to snap your fingers or twitch your nose and have everything you've ever wanted."

There. That sounded normal. Probably.

Lydia hums into the phone, considering it.

"I don't know. I think it might get complicated, in reality."

"Because it wasn't on the show?" he asks sarcastically.

"No, I just mean… well. Maybe it's good that we don't have the ability to have everything we want. I'm not sure I would get anything done if there wasn't an opportunity for failure."

"Yeah, you would," scoffs Stiles. "You have this, like, intrinsic drive to prove yourself. To do something. You'd probably just be bored out of your mind with magic."

"But I'd be better dressed."

"Impossible," he says fondly.

"Hmm," she replies, not disagreeing, which cracks him up.

Stiles glances over at the clock, seeing that it's two thirty in the morning. He's going to have to sign off soon, but he doesn't want to. He has become obsessed with these little pockets of time that they share together. It's their own, fucked-up version of pillow talk, with her husband asleep in bed right next to her. But when she's on the phone with him, breathing with him, spending time with him, he knows she isn't thinking about Jackson. She's thinking about _Stiles_.

And, as soon as they hang up, he knows that bubble bursts. It _has_ to. Every day, he is surrounded by and consumed with being in love with her. But when Lydia turns off her phone, he doesn't necessarily have to be in her head like she's in his. And Stiles, selfishly, wants to monopolize her mind as much as he can.

He is afraid— tremendously so, like an anchor that drags him into the sand— that he will be too easy to forget if their world were ever to come crashing down around the two of them. Like maybe, despite the soulmark on Lydia's wrist, he will still land on the other side of the debris. And, once out of sight, he will also be out of mind.

So he clings. He has to.

The worst part, the most humiliating part, is that he thinks she might know. He thinks Lydia might see through his paper-thin disguise and realize that he knows he's holding too tight. Stiles feels like everything he does gives himself away, and he's just waiting for the day where she calls him out for loving her too much. For wanting her too badly.

"I think it might be that time," Lydia hints. "Are you okay?"

He closes his eyes. Nods.

"Yeah. Gotta go to sleep or else Lauren's gonna draw another moustache on me when I inevitably fall asleep at my desk."

"Well, for the record, I think you looked very debonair."

"So should I pursue the moustached life?" asks Stiles, testing her.

"No," replies Lydia firmly. "I'm going to strongly encourage you to _not_ go down that thorny path."

He pretends to sigh in exasperation.

"So demanding."

"Goodnight," Lydia says tenderly. "I love you."

" _I love you so much."_ He imagines her voice, desperate and sad. " _I want to be with you. I want to be able to call you when my mom's in the hospital and I want you to show up and hold me and I want—"_

"Yeah, 'night. Love you too."

It feels too abrupt, and he's so angry at himself that he can't fall asleep.

* * *

 

"Okay, that guy," Stiles says, gesturing with his chin. "What do you think?"

Lydia tilts her sunglasses down, peering over them as she glances towards the man sauntering down the street.

"Seven."

Stiles' eyes widen.

"What? _Seven_? Are you kidding? If that's how you'd rate his ass, where'd you put _mine_?"

"It's a ten," Lydia says primly, pushing her sunglasses back up her nose. "You happen to have the standard by which I judge all other asses."

He wiggles said ass on the bench, feeling extremely proud of himself.

"You're biased," he says, not really caring.

"Absolutely," Lydia says sincerely. "Your ass so happens to be the ass I love to bite the best."

"Babe, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," replies Stiles, false sincerity dripping from his voice as he covers his hand with his heart.

It's a cool spring evening, and the sky smells of warm rain. The sun is pale behind translucent clouds, and Lydia is the brightest thing on the street. She's wearing a pretty dress, fancier than usual, and with heels that make her taller than he's ever seen her. Her hair is loose and wavy around her shoulder blades, and she looks relaxed for the first time since Christmas.

Probably because the two of them are no longer confining themselves to the indoors like caged animals. Jackson and Andrew had another away game, so Stiles and Lydia had driven two and a half hours away in the _opposite_ direction, just to go to dinner somewhere that nobody would see them. They'd ended up in a tiny town full of small restaurants and little antique shops. Stiles could tell right away that Lydia was in her element as they strolled through the streets hand in hand, her eyes covered by sunglasses even though the day wasn't bright enough to warrant them. By the time they're ready for dinner, her arms are full of bags and her cheeks are pink with happiness.

They grab a buzzer and Stiles takes her bags from her arms and leads her over to a bench to wait, and that's how they end up rating people's butts together on a Sunday night with odd weather looming over their heads.

"Okay, what about her?" says Lydia. "I think we have similar asses."

"Oh, you have an awfully high opinion of yourself, don't you?" Stiles says.

"So I guess she's a twelve, then," Lydia decides for him, trying not to giggle when he blows a raspberry on her neck in retaliation.

"Let me rate my _own_ butts, thank you."

She pinches her brows together.

"That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear."

"I'm full of those," notes Stiles. "Hang in there, Martin, and I'll take you for a ride."

"You already did that today, twice," she says blandly.

His mouth opens in delighted surprise.

"You just made a sex joke." Lydia smiles brilliantly. "God, I'm _such_ a good influence on you. Make another one. Show me your progress."

"No," she says, smoothing her skirt out over her lap elegantly. "It has to be the right moment, or else the quality of the joke suffers."

"Never mind quality, gimme quantity. Give me every sex joke possible."

She sighs.

"Are you going to keep on insisting on this?"

"Yeeupp."

"Then I guess I'll have to distract you."

" _How_?"

"Hmmm," starts Lydia. "Him." Stiles narrows his eyes at the dark skinned man she points to with a shoulder-to-waist ratio that makes his mouth go dry.

"Um," he says. "One million. Bazillion."

"You give it up too easily," she admonishes.

"I mean," he says. "I did put out on our first date."

Lydia's lips quirk up at the callback from so long ago.

"It's my fault. I seduced you."

"Oh yeah," he agrees emphatically. "You're just dangerous, is what you are."

She chuckles, then leans her head on his shoulder.

"I am, aren't I?" she says lightly. "You're lucky I picked you to drag down with me."

"Drag away," he says sincerely. "Turns out, I was already at rock bottom."

She kisses his jaw sweetly, then tenses in panic for a moment before she seems to remember that there's nobody around who knows her, and un-tenses.

"I keep forgetting," she mutters under her breath.

"Ha. I know. Me too." Then he puts his arm around her shoulders and takes her hand with his other hand, just because he is suddenly hyper-aware that he _can_. "This feels really nice, doesn't it?"

Lydia nods emphatically against his shoulder. Her enthusiasm makes him laugh.

"What if this was every day?" she murmurs, her voice dropping low. He isn't sure if it's her words or her tone that is so seductive, but it makes him swallow hard at what sounds blatantly like a proposition.

He wants to ask if she's _asking_ , or if she doesn't know what she's saying. Her feet are calm against the stone street, not tapping insistently or jostling nervously. Her fingers are still in his hand. She seems fine. Normal.

"Then I'd never have to miss you," he settles on. That's safe, right?

It's not like what Lydia had said was safe.

Sometimes he doesn't know what to do anymore.

"True," she replies. "I think I'd love the opportunity to get sick of you."

Stiles closes his eyes, biting back question after question. He doesn't notice when the buzzer starts going off, but Lydia does, and she taps it once, twice, with a perfectly manicured nail before she stands up and offers a hand to him.

"Shall we, Mr. Stilinski?"

_We shall, Mrs. Stilinski._

"Sure," he says, smiling fakely. "Let's go."

* * *

 

Lydia is late.

He isn't sure what's going on, because he hadn't _asked_ her to do this; he knows that they usually don't see each other at night, but she had been so insistent, and so he had agreed. But it's ten thirty, and he's sitting on his couch, all alone, wondering why he isn't with his best friend on his birthday.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want us to come over?" Scott had asked an hour earlier, when Lydia had been an hour less late and Stiles had been only marginally less pissed.

He had wanted to say yes, but Allison had been in the background, the kiddo in her arms as she hummed lightly to him, trying to get him to fall asleep. And something in him had felt so terribly unsettled, like he didn't belong with Allison and Scott; like they were a part of a different universe that Stiles wasn't allowed to walk into without getting soot all over it.

"I'm sure," Stiles had replied. "She'll be here soon."

Soon had passed, and he's still waiting.

He takes another sip of the rum and coke he's drinking, his hand clenched too tight around the glass. Stiles is just wondering if maybe he should call his dad for the second time that day when the doorbell rings. He's off the couch in a flash, dropping the glass onto the coffee table and not waiting to see if it hit its mark before he rushes to the door, pulling it open.

Lydia is standing outside on his front porch, holding a box of ice cream cake, her eyes rimmed with red.

"What happened?" he asks immediately. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, mashing her lips together and swallowing before she speaks.

"Happy birthday," she says, voice hoarse. "I'm sorry I'm late."

Stiles feels his insides go cold at the sight of her looking so lost. He pulls her inside, grabbing the ice cream cake from her and ducking into the kitchen to shove it in the freezer.

"What happened?" he says again once he walks back into the family room and steers her over to the couch. "Did… did Jackson find out?"

He doesn't understand why there's dread accumulating in his stomach, because, to be honest, he has a feeling Jackson finding out that Lydia's been cheating on him for a year and a half would be the best birthday present ever.

And then he feels sick to his stomach, because that's horrible and he can't believe he'd even thought it.

"No," Lydia says. "I'm sorry I'm late, I just—"

"It's okay," he says, squeezing her to him. But the words feel like peanut butter, sticking to the roof of his mouth, and it gets harder and harder to forgive her for every little thing. He's terrified that one day, it's going to slip out that all of it isn't okay. He doesn't think Lydia knows, and he doesn't want her to find out. "Are you alright?"

He moves in to kiss her mouth, but Lydia draws back. She looks as startled by the action as Stiles feels, then blinks, trying to recover herself. She reaches a hand over to pull her sweater up over her bare shoulder, then sits slightly hunched forward, as if she's drawing into herself. He wants to tell her to relax, that she's safe, that she doesn't need to be worried. But she can't look at him when she speaks, and it makes his words die in his throat.

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I bought… I bought this lingerie for tonight… it was stupid, but it's your _birthday_ , and I wanted to look nice… and I was putting it on and… and Jackson walked in and saw it and assumed it was for him."

"Oh," Stiles says, because he sees where this is going, he does, but he isn't sure he wants to hear it. He feels the need to stop her from telling him, but his tongue feels too thick in his mouth, and he can't speak.

"Usually, I'm… I'm more prepared… I _disassociate_ , it's fine, but tonight it all happened so fast and I had to… I had to tell him it was, and… I'm sorry, I know it ruined your birthday, but I can't… I _had_ to—"

"It's okay," he promises, putting a hand on her shoulder. When she doesn't pull away, and instead burrows closer to him, he pulls her into his arms and strokes her hair, feeling like he might be irreparable as a human being if seeing her like this doesn't make him want to put this whole thing to a screeching halt.

There's an irrational anger that is brewing tumultuously in his stomach; he wants to tell himself to _stop_ , to not be mad at Lydia, because it isn't her fault. She'd slept with Jackson when she hadn't wanted to, and she'd done it to preserve them.

Yet something bitter fills his thoughts as he thinks about what it would be like if she had left him. This birthday could have been a happy one if there hadn't been anything in between them, and yet Jackson Whittemore continues to be the black cloud that hangs over every day of Stiles' life. As long as he is in love with Lydia, Jackson will be apart of his life to an almost equal extent.

"I ruined your birthday," she says voice, subdued.

"Nah," Stiles refutes, kissing the top of her head. "You didn't."

He takes her hand and leads her to the kitchen, where he pulls out the cake and sets it on the counter. For a moment, he stares at it, wondering if he wants to put candles in it. Instead, he chooses not to, opting for grabbing two forks and having them both take whatever they want.

Lydia barely eats. She stares down at the cake, at the brightly colored balloons, and there is a dullness in her green eyes that terrifies him.

He thinks of last year, when they'd just met each other but ended up having absolutely fantastic birthday sex anyways, because everything was new and good and vibrantly lit. Tonight, he swallows down cake that tastes like paste and thinks about how much he wants to go to sleep; he thinks about whether he's still going to have this heavy ache in the pit of his stomach when he's trying to fall asleep without her tonight.

"I don't want to go home," whispers Lydia, staring at the cake, and Stiles clutches so hard onto the counter that his knuckles turn white. He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to tell her that he considers _this_ to be her home.

"You love him," Stiles says, reminding her because he loves her _that_ much, because he has to. Otherwise he will not be able to let her walk out this door.

Lydia looks up at him with a confounded look on her face and disoriented eyes.

"I love him," she repeats.

He closes his eyes.

"You married him because you love him."

God, this hurts. This _hurts_.

Stiles wants her to leave. He can't stand this moment; can't stand the way it tugs at his skin and makes him want to leap out of his body, skyrocketing away from the woman who he loves more than anything.

Looking at her is tearing him to pieces.

He feels stretched uncomfortably thin, looking at Lydia seeming pale and meek.

"But it's not—" she says, searching for the words. "You know. It's not—"

It's not the same. He knows.

Her face crumbles, and he moves in to bury her face in his chest because he can't see it. He can't look at it.

"Stay as long as you need to," he murmurs into the top of her hair. "You have me as long as you need me."

* * *

 

The car is parked at the side of the road, pulled over far enough that it would appear innocuous. But Stiles would recognize it anywhere; he's gone over it enough times— the night he'd pulled it over, the tired eyes that had looked up at him from the passenger's side window. The way he'd been too mesmerized by her green eyes to even notice his mark burning on his hip, and then he'd just walked away from her without realizing what he was walking away from.

She's on the route he usually takes at this time of night. Even though he doesn't have the time to stop, he does anyways. Because it's Lydia, and if she's doing this, there's something wrong.

Then again, these days it sort of always feels like there's something wrong.

Stiles pulls over to the side of the road right behind her, nerves beginning to take over his stomach, spilling artlessly into his fingertips. He walks to her car and hops into the passenger's side, feeling strange to be sitting on this side when he's usually the one who's driving. His inclination is to reach for the wheel, but Lydia is currently drumming her fingers against it. Her makeup is done a little heavier today, with her hair curled more tightly than it usually is, and he instinctively knows that something is wrong because her mask is thicker than normal.

But this time, instead of asking, he waits for her to speak. He isn't sure if he's waiting to give her time or to give _himself_ time, but either way, Stiles lets the dread accumulate in his chest until Lydia's words finally bounce through the car.

"I think I might be pregnant."

There's blood rushing in his ears, and a clawing, terrifying sense of panic. His fight or flight instinct is telling him to run, but he swallows multiple times before he turns towards Lydia, eyes taking in the bland expression on her face as she stares at the road. She's trying to be strong, and if he wasn't so afraid, he'd tell her she was beautiful. That every single time she _tries_ , he thinks she's the most incredible thing he's ever seen. That he is obsessed with the jut of her chin and the ice over her eyes, because it means that Lydia Martin is still fighting for something.

"I… uh… well." Stiles clears his throat again. "Are you sure?"

She shakes her head.

"No."

He nods to himself.

"Well, when will you know?"

For a second, her mask slips, and her face crumples.

"I'm not ready to know yet."

Stiles nods his understanding, even though he doesn't get it.

"Okay."

She looks over at him, searching his face.

"If I'm pregnant, something changes," she says. "Something has to."

"Is that a bad thing?"

He doesn't mean to sound so dry, but he can see from her wince that the words scrape roughly against her. Lydia breathes out slowly, trying to keep herself composed.

"You want things to change?" she asks, and he can't help but let out a disbelieving laugh because… yes. Hello? Duh.

"Do you see things staying this way forever?"

She closes her eyes, leaning far back in her seat, her head dropping down.

"You want things to change," she says quietly.

He doesn't know how she could possibly be surprised.

"We went out in _public_ together, Lydia," Stiles says urgently. "We acted like a fucking couple. Do you think I would have done that if you were just sex to me? Do you think you would have risked anything like that if you didn't want it? Come on."

Her eyes are on fire at the condescension in his voice, and he wants to take it back immediately, but he stands his ground, meeting her gaze with his own glare.

"Don't tell me what to feel," she says, very carefully and slowly. "You don't get to do that, Stiles, just because you're in love with me."

"Someone has to!" he bursts out. She looks over at him, eyes wide— startled. "Lydia, come on. Think of all the shit you risk every time you sneak out to see me. Think of all the things you're putting on hold for this. This isn't about your marriage, this is about _me_. You said that. You did, when we first started this whole thing. This has nothing to do with Jackson, it has to do with you being happy. Can you at least admit that so that I don't spend every minute of every day of my life wondering when you're going to get it through your head?"

"Get out," she says, her eyes back on the windshield. She sounds calm, but there's a current of fury underneath her words that he's never quite heard before.

And this is it. This is what happens when he bottles for too long. All of it is just spilling out, and he knows that he should just keep on shutting his mouth because he could _lose_ her. He could lose everything. But instead, he laughs at the ridiculousness of it all, feeling like something is being ripped from him with the sound.

"Because I was _honest_?"

"Because you're yelling and I don't need to hear it, alright, Stiles? I hear it enough at home." He breathes in sharply at that, and Lydia winces, her eyes squeezing shut again. "I didn't mean it like that."

"You did."

"I _didn't_."

He knocks his fist against his palm, looking out the window, trying to gather himself. When he speaks again, his voice is composed.

"Is it his or mine."

"What?"

"The baby. His, or mine?"

"The hypothetical baby could hypothetically be yours or his."

"But?" Stiles probes.

She sighs.

"But, I mean. Clearly it's more likely that it's yours. I sleep with you more."

Any other day, that would have been a victory. Now he just wants to curl up into a ball.

"What happens if it's mine?"

"We'll get a paternity test when it's born and take it from there."

"No. I want more."

"You can't have it," she says sharply.

"You're just saying that because you're mad at me."

"I'm saying it because I'm _scared_ ," Lydia shoots back.

He should soften. He wants to soften. He wants to tell her that he's sorry, that he's coming on too strong, that everything will be okay. He wants to step back and tell her that he'll do whatever she wants; he'll be quiet; he'll do whatever it takes to keep Lydia happy. His mind is screaming at him to just shut up because she literally _just_ told him that she was afraid, and he's making it worse. It's his job to love her, to want her unconditionally. And all he's doing is asking— no, demanding— for more from her. From Lydia. His soulmate, who owes him nothing but gives him everything.

Stiles never wanted to make her small. Not ever.

Not like Jackson does.

"If there is even the _slightest_ chance that this baby is mine," Stiles says, voice cold, "something's going to change. I want to be there for every moment. Every step. Do you understand that? This isn't fucking negotiable, Lydia. This isn't a game anymore. This is our kid."

When he's walking away from her car, it occurs to him that he didn't kiss her. Not even once.

* * *

 

"Hey, Stilinski, would you do me a favor?"

Stiles looks up from the casework he's doing to see Lauren standing above him, clutching a file to her chest and staring at him with a gentle smile on her lips. He scrubs a hand over his face, a little disoriented to see her still at work. It's late at night, and he hasn't been aware of what's been happening for the past few hours.

Maybe days. It's been _days_ since they'd talked, and he'd just gotten lost in his head, and he's barely been trying to stumble his way back through. He knows Lauren's been noticing, but mostly she's left him alone, which Stiles appreciates. It's good practice for the future. When he's still, you know. Alone. Totally, completely alone.

"Yeah?"

"Mark my calendar for the day you're going to come back from the dead so I can bring a cake to work."

His voice is dull as he says, "What kind of cake?"

Lauren plops into the chair next to him, looking frustrated.

"Come on. Please come back. That didn't even _try_ to be funny."

"What do you want?" he asks slowly.

"My idiot back," Lauren replies, ruffling his hair fondly. Stiles shoots her a death glare. "Yikes. Okay. Listen, I don't know what's going on with you, but I hate it, and I need you to come back. So go home, refresh, do what you need to do, and snap out of this. Nobody likes to see you suffer."

She cuffs him on the shoulder once before she gets up, shouting at him to go home as she walks away.

Stiles inhales lengthily, then shakes his head and gets out of his chair, snagging his messenger bag before he walks out to his car. When he pulls up at his condo, he trudges up the steps, dragging his feet as he pulls out his key to unlock the door. When he tries to open it, it's locked. Frowning, Stiles turns the key again, and this time, the door swings open.

Standing in the center of the room is Lydia, her heels kicked off by the door, her hands twisting nervously together. She looks _just_ as exhausted as he feels, and she's in leggings and a big sweater that she'd stolen from him. He realizes that she must have changed when she got here, and the thought warms him. Lydia had let herself into his apartment, changed her clothes, taken down her hair.

"Stiles—" she starts, and he moves forward, slamming into her body as he kisses her too roughly, with too much teeth.

"Fuck, I missed you so much. I missed you _so_ much."

She laughs, but there's a tinge of sadness to it, and some desperation as she moves her hands up to his cheeks and strokes them.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you. I didn't know what to say."

He backs up.

"Well, let me say something." Lydia frowns. "I think we're trained to think that a baby is a bad thing, but I shouldn't… I shouldn't have responded that way. A baby doesn't have to be a bad thing. A baby can be a really fucking _beautiful_ thing, Lydia. And we can do it together. I know we can. You, and me, and the life we want. We can be happy."

Her lower lip tightens, and that's how he knows before she says it.

"I'm not pregnant."

Stiles blinks.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

He nods, almost to himself, and Lydia reaches out for him, cradling his face in her hands. She rises on her tip toes so that she can press their foreheads together.

"I don't want to keep hurting you," she whispers.

"You're not." He can see the disbelieving look on her face even though she's still so close to him. "You're _not_."

But Lydia shakes her head.

"I just want it to feel good more than it hurts." She trails her lips down his cheek lightly, then winds up at his neck, where she leaves small kisses on his skin. It's sensitive there, and he tries to stave off the whine in his throat that is sure to come, just because Lydia is _touching_ him. Maybe it's the illicitness of what they're doing, but it still feels like fireworks. It still feels so good. "Does it?"

A few months ago, the answer would have been astoundingly, resoundingly 'yes.' But he thinks about Lauren at his desk, her sad eyes. He thinks about how long it's been since he hung out with Scott. He thinks about the hope that tugged at him at the idea that Lydia could be having his baby.

He doesn't know the answer anymore.

"Yes," he says, not sure if he's lying. "Always."

She beams brilliantly up at him, and he doesn't regret it. Lydia flounces towards the couch and bends over before she produces a bottle of vodka.

"I thought I'd make you a seabreeze," she says happily. "You know, in celebration of me still being able to drink alcohol."

"Sounds _great_ ," he agrees, wishing there was something else to celebrate and then hating himself for it. She goes to the kitchen and digs through the plastic bags she'd brought, then produces a perfectly mixed drink with way too much vodka.

Vodka that goes to his head alarmingly quickly.

They're sitting cross legged on the couch, facing each other, and the idea pops into Stiles head when he lifts up Lydia's sweatshirt and stares at the flat plane of her stomach.

"What?" she giggles.

"What if you had a baby," replies Stiles, his eyes strangely wide.

He feels sloppy and silly and a little bit dizzy from a few too many seabreezes, but also LydiaLydiaLydia because _Lydia_ makes him loopy; she makes him dumb cliches in romance movies; she makes him sing along to the radio. He wants to _love_ her, to feel like this forever, to bring her home to meet Melissa and Allison. He wants to tell his dad that it's impossible for him to really feel lonely because he knows that somewhere in the world is the most incredible woman who would rather be with him.

"What?" This time, it's less silly. She looks taken aback. She downs another long sip.

His limbs don't feel right as his hands spread wide across her stomach, staring.

"What if there was a baby in there, Lydia, and it was mine?"

She covers his hand with hers, eyes wide.

"Fuck," she says. The word seems longer than it usually is, setting him off into laughter. Everything is warm. "I would be with you," she says, her tone definitive, as if this is _it_. This is all it would take to settle it. "You and me. And the baby. Our baby."

He meets her eyes. She frowns unsteadily. And then she reaches down and tugs the sweater over her head, leaving her topless.

Stiles tackles her gracelessly at once, making her squeal with laughter when he somehow manages to hit himself in the face with his knuckle.

"You wanna?" he asks, the words smushed against her lips. Lydia nods against him, fisting her hands into her hair, legs wrapping lazily around his waist.

"Yes," she says as he wraps his lips around her nipple. She sighs. "Such a good idea, Stiles. You and me."

"Us," he agrees, before switching to the other nipple. She giggles again— it's such a weird sound to hear coming from Lydia, but it floods him with a sense of joy.

Somehow, they end up on the floor, Lydia landing on top of Stiles, eagerly tearing off his shirt. He kicks off his pants and watches her wiggle out of her underwear, finding her wet and moaning as soon as he slides a finger into her.

She shakes her head, tugging at his arm.

"No, no, no." Lydia leans down, biting a hickey into his neck. Stiles moans, biting his bottom lip at the feeling of her marking him. "Fuck me. Fuck a baby into me."

"Yeah," he responds, agreeing. "Yeah, yeah, _yes_."

It's sloppy, and a little slow, and they take longer to find a rhythm because they're both drunk. But when Lydia sinks onto him, it feels achingly, deliciously good. Stiles stares up at her and watches, his mouth open in awe at the sight of her, so perfect above him. He's never been inside of her without a condom before, and it occurs to him that he wishes he weren't drunk so that he could really savor the feeling. There's something languid about the way she stretches above him that he can feel in his gut and aches to commit to memory, but this might be gone tomorrow, if the way he feels is any indication. Everything is out of sorts and off-kilter.

Everything except Lydia. His fixed point. His home.

His soulmate.

He comes inside of her with a long groan, and her cheeks are roughed pink with happiness as she leans close to kiss his Adam's apple, then his forehead. Stiles finishes her off with his fingers a moment later, with Lydia keening beside him, her head thrown back onto the floor.

"I want you to much, Stiles," she says, sounding near tears. "Why do I always want you _so much_?"

She comes around his fingers, voice high and breathy, and he falls asleep with his head on her stomach, lashes fluttering there, thinking of a yellow house in the woods with their name on the mailbox and a redheaded little girl on a porch swing, Mets cap perched on her head.

* * *

 

He doesn't know why, but they don't talk about it. They don't.

Stiles wakes up with a pounding headache and fear creating a home in his gut as he thinks about what they had done the night before. Lydia is already gone, and he feels hollow, finding himself alone on the floor without her. It seems cold. He never would have called her cold before, but he's also never felt this _scared_.

Lydia sweeps into his house the next day when he's taking a shower, climbing in with him and leaving a long, lingering kiss on his lips before she drops to her knees in front of him. They have sex afterwards and they use a condom without commenting on it.

There's no debate. There's no dithering. There's no talking.

It's like having sex creates this contract between the two of them that they can't talk about the other time— the drunken time. In the before, Stiles might have told her that he didn't know how he felt about what they did, and he was desperate to find out what she thought. He would have told her that he's scared, because the colors of his memories of her are turning darker, instead of the soft blue that he has grown to love so strongly.

But he bites his tongue as she moves in to kiss him, and by the time he opens his mouth to her, the words are already swallowed down. He lets her in over and over and over again and goes back to not asking for more, because in a way, she already gave him more. She gave him _everything_.

"You never told me if you like brussel sprouts," Lydia says one afternoon, lying half on-top of him on the couch, pausing as she takes a bite of lo mein. Her groceries have been stuck in his fridge so that they won't go bad while she spends time with him. Jackson's dry cleaning swings in her car window. Stiles had baked her some brownies last night at her request, and he's pretty sure she's going to bring them to a PTA meeting later tonight, but he doesn't want to know.

"Why do you need to know?" Stiles asks suspiciously, mouth half full of noodles. "You're not planning on making me eat one, are you?"

She smirks.

"No, I'm putting together a list of 'strengths' and 'weaknesses' in case anybody ever turns you into a video game character," she states.

"Huh. I think you're more of a nerd than you were before we got together."

"You know, I think you might be right."

"I'm real impressed with myself."

"You always are."

"True."

"Brussel sprouts," nudges Lydia.

"Real reason?"

Lydia sets down her lo mein, turning onto her stomach so that she's lying all the way on top of him, staring at him.

"I want to know everything about you," she murmurs. "And I feel like I should know if my soulmate likes brussel sprouts."

_Well I feel like I should know if my soulmate wanted me to get her pregnant, but we can't have everything, now can we?_

"They're disgusting," Stiles tells her. "Brussel sprouts, I mean. Also soulmates, though. They're disgusting too. Too pretty. Like sirens." He pauses, stroking some hair back from her face. "And you don't want to know everything about me."

"No?" Lydia asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm relatively certain you already figured out everything about me; I think it's only fair."

He wonders if she's tucking away pieces of him to keep when he's really, truly gone. He wonders if she's thinking about how to shuck him away effortlessly, easily. Lydia Martin is nothing if not effortless— at least, that's how she makes it look. He thinks she could make _anything_ seem easy.

And she could do that in heels.

"I'm… messier than you."

Stiles doesn't see her as perfect anymore. He doesn't.

(But he still does; can't help it. She's not a fantasy, but the reality of her has just made her seem more out of his grasp. The more of her he knows, the more he has of her to love, the easier it is to become lost in the raw, exquisiteness that Lydia projects. And he feels, more often than not, like it's just too late for him.)

"I know you know that's not true," she says sweetly, not buying it. "I don't want you to think that's true, because that would mean that I haven't done a good enough job not being scared of you."

"Of me?"

She nods, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth.

"I'm just a fake, Stiles," she says. "I fake my way through… everything. My marriage. Being a mother. The way I look. I have… my job. And you. And that's it, Stiles. That's the only thing that feels real. If I ever tried to tear us apart, it would be so much more _solid_ than everything else. So much more difficult. Do you understand that?"

He thinks about it obsessively that night— him being solid for her. Lydia not wanting to pretend around him. The way the lines around her eyes crinkle when she laughs hard, _really_ hard. The way he's only seen her do that a few times.

The past year and a half, he's been collecting so many bits and pieces of her. But he still doesn't know what she meant that night. He doesn't know what she was thinking. And he still, after all this time, doesn't feel like it's his right to ask.

* * *

 

Stiles finds out.

It's two weeks later and she texts him to come to her house and he speeds into the gated community and finds her on the floor of her master bathroom, fist clenched around a piece of brightly wrapped something as she sobs and sobs and sobs.

He drops onto the floor with her and takes her in his arms and rocks her back and forth, his stomach heavy with loss for something he'd never had. Stiles is wavering back and forth, sick at seeing her weak like this.

She cries like she'd wanted this. She cries until she's out of tears. She cries until he's crying too, shaking with her, his body a weight of dread and sorrow and the feeling over never ending, eternal, infinite loss of control.

Lydia cries like this was their one and only chance.

* * *

 

They start to Facetime at night despite the fact that it's more of a risk.

And, in a large way, it's just another way that they become each other's shadows after that afternoon. It's a way that they cradle each other closer and make sure that there isn't a way to wiggle out of this thing that they have, because he knows that both of them feel like _glass._ They're about to teeter to the ground, and touching is the only thing keeping them upright.

So when Lydia sticks earphones in her ears and lies against her headboard, her husband dead-asleep next to her, he knows better than to take it for granted, lest he finally shatter at the moment she's ready to give again.

Her face is glowing angelically in the light of her phone, and they make her eyes seem a like a grey color, washing her out. She isn't wearing any makeup as she squints at Stiles in the darkness of her bedroom. Her eyes trace over his face rapidly, taking in the nuances of his expressions and the way he keeps forgetting he's holding a phone and begins to wildly gesticulate.

"You're laughing at me," he says after the third time he does it. Lydia purposefully drags her lips into a very serious expression, then says,

"Of course I'm not laughing at you."

"Because you'd _never_ laugh at me."

"I mean, except for during sex, but that's just because that's when you're at your funniest."

"Oh, thanks," he replies, pulling a face. "Real sweet, Lyds."

"It's not such a bad way to grow old," she says softly. His breath catches. "Laughing."

His heartbeat stutters in his chest. Stiles pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth before he sighs, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck as he thinks of how he wants to phrase his next words.

"Sometimes you say things and I don't think you know what you're saying," he tells her bluntly. She doesn't respond. "Was that one of those times?"

It takes Lydia a few moments. But, slowly, she shakes her head.

"I want to stop thinking about it." She glances over at Jackson, checking to make sure he's not awake despite the fact that she never does that (" _It was a thunderstorm, and he slept through it. Also there was an earthquake… and, of course, every single time Andrew ever cried as a baby."_ ) "But… I can picture it sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

Her lips quirk up at the corners. Her voice gets tender.

"I'm driving down the street and I'm thinking about a future with you. I'm talking to a friend about her vacation and thinking about what it would be like to go away with you. I'm picking up Andrew at school and thinking about whether one of those kids could ever be ours."

Stiles can see his face reacting in the bottom corner of his screen— a ghostly complexion, bags under his eyes, a slight gape in his mouth that he has the presence of mind to close.

"You wanted that?" he asks. "You really wanted to get pregnant?"

Not for the first time, Lydia looks helpless.

"I want too many things."

His heart stops beating so fast and starts to settle, bitterness taking over like quicksand as it sinks.

"But one of those things was—"

"An out," she whispers. "Yes."

"An out of your marriage?" he asks. She winces as though her headphones are suddenly too loud.

"An out of not getting to be with you."

He slides down in bed, turning onto his side, thumb brushing over her cheek on the screen as he goes to check the time. It's early morning. Stiles can't remember the last time he went to bed at a decent hour.

"I have this vision, you know," he says.

"You do?"

"Yeah. I have a plan."

Her eyes open up, even as her face becomes still.

"Tell me a story," she suggests.

They say that too much. He would say that they're floundering for something to talk about, but really he thinks that they're scrambling for every bit, every piece, every minute detail. He's never loved anyone so thoroughly. It's not that she makes him feel whole. It's that she _is_ the whole.

"We have a little yellow house that's just outside of the city. You have a job in said city; I work in town because, let's face it, I'm not leaving Lauren, I'm gonna stay and be a small-town cop forever. I make Scott mow the lawn because I'm too lazy to do it and he's too nice to say no. There's a porch swing. And a white picket fence that keeps the dogs in. And a treehouse that the previous owners installed that we use for dirty things because we're bad people."

The tears that are watering in Lydia's eyes shine brightly in the light of her phone.

"That doesn't sound terrible."

"No, terrible is the fact that you make me do the gardening because you want our backyard to look awesome but you don't like being out in the sun."

"Well, it would compromise my complexion."

"Yeah yeah yeah."

"And our daughter falls in love with Scott's next child, right?"

"Oh, absolutely. There isn't actually a choice there; they're getting married whether they like it or not."

"They get to grow up best friends," says Lydia wistfully. He thinks how Lydia had never had a best friend before him, and it makes the heartache that he carries with him grow larger.

"Scott and I build them a second treehouse."

"No, it's a clubhouse. I don't trust your building skills enough to put even a hypothetical child up in a tree."

"I should be offended but… yeah, agreed."

She laughs through her nose, eyes rolling towards the ceiling as she flicks away a pesky tear from the corner of her eye.

"I'm tired of crying," she admits. "I feel like I do it too much these days."

"I don't ever want you to cry again."

There's a note of dark, exhausted humor in her eyes as she shakes her head at him.

"It's a nice thought," she says, because that's all it is. Just a thought.

"What if it wasn't a thought?" he asked, voice strained.

It's the same look of taken aback shock that she wears every single time he brings up something that would suggest making what they have more permanent— like it's never occurred to her, despite the fact that sometimes she'll say things that lets him know that she's so at _ease_ she forgets their reality. He's fucking terrified of reality. He can't keep living this way. So what if it wasn't a thought? It's so, _so_ possible. They could do it. They could make it happen.

"What do you mean?"

"What if you _chose_ me, Lydia?" he says impatiently. "I'll do anything you want. Give you anything. I'll marry you. I'll buy you the yellow house with the burgundy door. I'll give you children. I'll be a stay-at-home dad so you can work, or we can put the kids in daycare, or… whatever. _Anything_. Do you understand that? I'll give you anything you want. Just tell me what to do. _Please_."

"Anything?"

He nods eagerly.

"Tell me what to be and I'll be that."

She's silent for a long time. Too long. His skin crawls with what isn't being said.

"I want you," she tells him, her tone gentle. "You are what I want _most_ in the world. But… you aren't the only thing I want. And that's what makes it so hard."

He ignores the lump in his throat.

"That's not a decision."

"I'll tell you when I've made one," she says. "But for now… can this be enough?"

A thought drifts through his mind— he'd told himself, a year ago, that enough for him is anything that involved Lydia. But now?

"Yes," he fibs. "You're enough."

* * *

 

"You're smiling," Lauren points out suspiciously. "Did someone burp you?"

He looks at her oddly, glancing up from the screen of his computer.

"Um, what?"

Lauren shrugs, grabbing an elastic from her wrist and tugging her hair into a sloppy ponytail.

"You know. How babies smile after they burp?"

"Last time you touched Scott's baby, you were holding him like he was a basketball," Stiles reminds her, suspicious.

She sits on the corner of his desk, swinging her head around to read over his shoulder.

"I guess I've been reading a lot about babies lately."

"Why….?"

"Because it turns out my girlfriend wants them."

"And?"

"And I'm thinking I should probably marry her."

Stiles blinks.

"But she's not your soulmate."

Lauren tilts her head to the side, eyes fixed on his screen.

"I don't know. I don't know if I believe in that stuff. How much does it really matter?" she asks absently, nabbing the keyboard from Stiles and fixing a typo. A moment later, she freezes. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he says, feigning casualness as he pulls the keyboard back towards himself.

"I totally just ruined your good mood."

"Naw, I'm great. I'm doing great. Everything's great. We're great."

"Either there's something really wrong or you need to download a thesaurus into that brain of yours."

"Lydia's the genius in our relationship," he says, fingers back on his keys.

"Plus she's better at video games," teases Lauren.

"Fuck you, that was _one_ time."

"So not appropriate workplace language."

"Neither is asking your coworker if somebody just burped him."

"Touche."

She pushes off of his desk and starts towards the break room, but Stiles swivels around in his chair, something tugging at him.

"Lauren? Congratulations."

She smiles.

"Well. Nothing's set in stone."

"Quick question?"

"Fire away," she invites.

"Would you consider letting me choreograph you a flash mob proposal?"

She stares at him for ten seconds flat before turning around and walking away without another word.

* * *

 

Stiles is pulling the cruiser into an Espresso parking lot when his phone goes off in his pocket, loudly playing his ringtone in a way that nearly makes him jump out of his skin. He recovers long enough to say "Password?" before he is greeted by a musical laugh on the other end of the line.

"You're ridiculous, Stilinski."

"So are you, McCall."

"Well, only because I've known you since I was sixteen and some of it was _bound_ to rub off," says Allison, her voice sounding like she's smiling.

"You callin' to invite me for dinner tonight?" Stiles asks. "Because Scott already did that, and I'll be there with alcohol."

"None for me, actually," Allison says cheerfully. "That's what I was calling about."

"Fuck," Stiles says.

"I wanted to tell you before Scott did—"

"He didn't."

"Because I know he's excited, but he got to tell you last time—"

"He knocked you up _again_?"

"It's only the second time!" Allison replies, laughing. "And yes. He did. I'm pregnant."

"Pregnant with expectations for how _annoying_ it will be to do all of this all over again?" jokes Stiles.

"Oh, pipe down Stilinski," she says. "You know you're excited."

"I get to name this one, right?"

"Of course. It's your turn, after all," she replies dryly.

"Great," Stiles says, getting out of the car and walking into the coffee shop. "I'm thinking, like, something from Star Wars?"

"Like Luke?"

"No, more like Yoda. Or Qui-Gon Jinn."

"See you tonight, Stiles," Allison says warmly. "Love you."

"Love ya too," he says, then hangs up the phone and orders his coffee with extra whipped cream.

He's still got some time before Lauren gets suspicious, so Stiles decides to pop into Whole Foods to get chocolate covered coffee beans to wave them in Allison's face, as they're her favorite and he's an asshole. He's in the process of beaming about all the cute onsies in his future when he catches a glimpse of familiar colored strawberry blonde hair.

 _Lydia_ , he thinks giddly, then decides to sneak up behind her and tell her that Scott and Allison made another whole human being.

"Lydia!" he calls out, rushing up to her. She turns around at the sound of his voice, her hands leaving the cart as she searches for him. Lydia _glows_ when her eyes catch sight of him; he watches as it spreads all the way across her face, thawing her. " _Hey_."

"Hi," she says quietly, reaching for his hand and squeezing it very quickly. "What are you doing here?"

"Allison got knocked up so I'm gonna bring booze, coffee, and possibly sushi and then just kinda wave it under her—"

"Mommy?"

Lydia's entire body stiffens at the sound of the small voice that is approaching them. Immediately, the light in her eyes snuffs out, and is replaced by alarm. She looks up at Stiles pleadingly.

For a moment, he can't do it. He can't look. He watches Lydia instead.

"Yes, honey?" she says, voice masked with lightness. "Did you find the cereal you wanted?"

"Yup," he says happily. Stiles watches the little shoes he is wearing as he stands on his tip-toes and drops the cereal into Lydia's carriage. He forces himself to count to ten before he looks over at Lydia's son.

Andrew looks so much like his father that Stiles is startled. He has chubby cheeks that will most assuredly sharpen into the same angular ones his father has. His hair is blond, just like Jackson's, but he smiles like Lydia does, with his lips closed.

And his eyes. They're the same color as Lydia's. Grey-green with little flecks of yellow that Stiles has spent too much time staring into.

This is him. This is Lydia's little boy.

"Andrew," says Lydia hesitantly. "Um, this is my friend Stiles. He's a police officer. Like Mary's dad? Remember?"

The little boy nods curiously, walking forward and sticking his hand out pompously, just like he's probably seen his dad do a million times. Lydia's lips quirk up. So do Stiles'. He glances up at her, checking to see if it's okay. When she nods, Stiles squats down with Andrew, getting on the same level as him before he shakes the little boy's hand.

"Hey," he says. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you," recites Andrew. "You know my mom?"

"Yeah," says Stiles easily. "She's a really cool lady. I met her at work— pulled her over because she was driving really, really fast. Which is bad."

"Mommy was being bad?"

Stiles nods seriously.

"Mommy broke the _law_. You never want to do that."

Andrew considers this very carefully. Then he says,

"Do you like penguins?"

Stiles' heart picks up speed.

"I do," he says. "They're fancy."

The little boy's eyes light up.

"Did you know that there's penguins called macaroni penguins? Like macaroni and cheese?" he says excitedly.

Lydia's hand slides around Andrew's shoulder.

"Andrew is obsessed with penguins right now," she fills in for Stiles.

"Daddy says that we can go see some real ones soon," he informs Stiles, smiling Lydia's smile again. The dimples on his cheeks makes Stiles' chest ache almost as much as the fact that 'daddy' refers to Jackson.

Andrew begins babbling on and on about the aquarium, and all the things he's going to do with his dad. Stiles wants to focus, he does, but he suddenly feels like he's been _smashed_. And he can't help but look over at Lydia.

It jumps into his head before he realizes what's happening. He pictures her on the floor of her kitchen, holding a bottle of wine, eyes so tired." _No matter what I did, it wasn't enough to glue them together long enough to not fuck me up. And it stayed with me… just… for the rest of my life."_

He sleepwalks through the rest of the conversation and leaves Whole Foods without the coffee beans.

When Lydia calls him later that night, he lets it go to voicemail.

* * *

 

"I have a surprise for you."

She says it without preamble, her arms around Stiles' neck, her face lighter than he's seen it in days. He can tell that she's excited from the flush of her cheeks, and he _definitely_ appreciates the low cut of the dress she wears, but the smile that he musters in return is lackluster at best.

"Is it a puppy?" Stiles questions, backing her against the car and kissing her briefly on the nose. Lydia swats his shoulder playfully.

"No. But get in. I'm kidnapping you."

"I have to be back at work in an hour," Stiles warns her, hopping into the car that Lydia had only just gotten out of. "Lauren can only cover my ass for that long."

She heaves herself into the driver's seat, breasts bouncing slightly, and Stiles _seriously_ has to stop noticing this shit, because it's really his own fault that this the the longest they've ever gone without sex. Usually, the fact that they could be caught and told to stop at any moment increases his need for her exorbitantly. He has to make the most of the time they have together, because it could vanish any day now.

But they haven't had sex since the day he met Andrew, and sometimes Stiles catches Lydia looking at him oddly before she forces a smile onto her face. He thinks she might have noticed.

Today, she hooks up the radio to her iPod and plays an indie band that he likes and babbles on about work. Her hand is clutching his tightly over the console as she drives; she seems antsy, Stiles thinks. Like she's full of nervous energy. It makes him nervous too, which is better than the numbness that he has been feeling ever since that day in the store.

Stiles listens to her talk about her research silently, leaning his head against the window and watching the country roads slide by. They're getting further and further from Beacon Hills, heading off into the same direction that they'd gone when they'd been trying to escape town a while back. It would be easy, Stiles thinks, to just brush his thumb comfortingly over the top of her hand. Let her know that he's right there with her. That everything's okay.

He doesn't. He can't.

Lydia flicks on her turn signal after driving for fifteen minutes, her wheels churning loudly against gravel.

"Where exactly are you taking me?"

She turns to him just for a second, clarity in her eyes.

"Somewhere _good_."

Stiles sits up as houses begin to speed past the windows instead of trees. None of them are very big— certainly not like the house that Lydia and Jackson share together. But there are kids' toys littered all over the yards, half-abandoned in the excitement of some insignificant moment. This is the kind of place that would have ice cream trucks rolling down the street on a warm summer evening, barefooted children running after it, ignoring the way pebbles cling to their feet as they rush down the sidewalk.

Eventually, they pull into an area where the houses are slightly less smushed together. These ones have larger yards, and Stiles' nerves increase an absurd amount when he realizes that Lydia is slowing down.

She doesn't say anything as she pulls over to the side of the road, right in front of a yellow house with a burgundy door, a white picket fence around it. It's small— only big enough for three people, four if they're lucky. But then again, anything would be small in comparison to Lydia's house.

"What do you think?" she asks tentatively.

"It's just like the one I was talking to you about."

When he turns around to look at Lydia, finally tearing his eyes away from the house, she's looking at him with a timid expression on her face.

"Right down to the fence," says Lydia quietly.

"Yeah."

Stiles doesn't know why he's not giving more. But he can't.

He feels stuck.

"I know meeting Andrew was… hard. I never wanted to upset you; I didn't want that to happen. I promise."

"No." Stiles shakes his head. "I'm fine."

"You've been distant ever since," Lydia says sharply. "Don't lie to me, Stiles. I'm right here, _looking_ at you." She hesitates. "I'm looking at you, and you can't look at me."

He snaps his eyes up to hers, but it hurts so much. He loves her. And it's _awful_.

"I'm looking at you," he says, but he isn't, not really. He's trying to dull himself to the emotions quelling in his stomach. "I'm right here, Lydia."

She touches his cheek, cupping her hand around it, and Stiles turns into her touch, nuzzling against it. He feels small under the softness in her eyes; the sympathy that he doesn't want, because this is all his fault. He's the one that forced her to make the sacrifice. He's the one who forced her to be with him.

"I know that it's hard to see him," murmurs Lydia. "I know it doesn't feel right, but this? You and me? This is it. This made me realize that having a best friend is possible. That loving someone like this is possible. So if all that is something that is within the bounds of this universe... it's not impossible that we could have… something."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Something?"

"Something like… Andrew," she replies, hedging.

Instantly, involuntarily, he pictures a kid with Stiles' moles and Lydia's everything.

It empties him out of anything else.

"And we'd have it all in this house?" he responds vacantly.

Lydia's brows twitch together, but she forces a falsely sugary smile onto her face.

"I went looking for it," she admits. "I couldn't help myself. You described it and I wanted… I wanted to find something like it. To know that it was possible." Her smile grows. "And it is. It _is_ possible."

" _No matter what I did, it wasn't enough to glue them together long enough to not fuck me up. And it stayed with me… just… for the rest of my life."_

He wants to get out of the car and run all the way back to Beacon Hills, if only because he's pretty sure that losing his breath might finally push out the clawing, desperate feeling in his chest.

"I wish it was," he says quietly.

The quiver against the steady-set of her chin is enough to keep him from looking at her for the whole drive home.

* * *

 

It's been a long time since Stiles didn't work on Saturday, a fact that has escaped neither Scott's nor Lauren's notice, but whatever. He still sees his dad on Sunday nights for dinner. Sometimes he drops leftovers at the hospital for Melissa afterwards. He _does_ stuff.

But this Saturday is especially sucky, because it's the first day that really feels like summer, and Stiles is sick of being stuck at work, dealing with petty shit that he couldn't care less about. Lauren is up at a vineyard with her fiancée, Scott and Allison are shopping for baby things, and the world is full of more important things than whatever bullshit he's dealing with at work.

He sits at his desk and ignores his paperwork in favor of waiting for someone to come up to him and tell him that something _actually_ happened so that he can leave his desk instead of feeling like he's caged up, ready to spring.

"Stilinski!" calls the sheriff. He springs up, ready to be reprimanded for messy case reports or for sitting around and, you know, doing absolutely nothing. Instead, he sees his boss poking his head out the door of his office, looking for someone to harass.

"Yessir?" Stiles says.

"There was a noise complaint in the Stoneridge community. Would you be willing to go check it out?"

Stoneridge. That's where Lydia lives.

"Sure," Stiles says easily. He jots down the information on his hand, checking to make sure it's not her address, then books it to his car, hopping up and down in the elevator to get some energy out. It's just as beautiful outside as it had looked from the windows in the precinct. Stiles leaves his window down and lets his hand stick out of it as he drives the short distance it takes to get to Stoneridge.

The noise complaint is from two older people who are annoyed with the neighboring kid's fifth birthday party next door. Stiles doesn't know why they'd called the cops— it's not _that_ loud, if you factor out the kids in the bouncy house and the sound of the ponies braying loudly.

Anyways. They're nice people. Stiles delivers his message, grabs a cupcake, bounces a few times, and is sent on his way with a goodie bag.

There's two ways to exit the community. One passes Lydia's house. One avoids it.

It's not actually hard for Stiles to pick which way to go. He's planning on slowing down as he passes, just savoring the fact that she's in there and she's _his_. He's not expecting her to be on her front lawn, standing in a summer dress that is currently soaking wet as she laughs and claps for Andrew.

Andrew, who is currently running in and out of the sprinklers, cheering loudly, his spindly little kid legs moving quickly as he slips and slides across the front lawn. Jackson is hollering out encouragement through his cupped hands, dressed in plaid shorts and a golf shirt. He hasn't gotten wet, but he's still hugging Lydia from behind, pressing kisses against her cheeks. And she's smiling, rubbing her hands back and forth across his arms.

As Stiles watches, Andrew rushes over to his dad and mom and starts tugging both of them towards the sprinklers.

She doesn't notice as he speeds past her house, which is okay. It's okay because he's almost too stunned to even consider himself an active part of the moment— this is theirs. Stiles is just here. Stiles is just the fly on the wall, watching the family that is not his and never will be.

He remembers her saying that wanting to be with him wasn't about her husband— had nothing to do with Jackson. He remembers the pictures hanging up on the wall, with a happy Lydia who believed she had just gotten married to the love of her life.

She hadn't married the love of her life.

But that doesn't mean she hadn't married the man she loves.

* * *

 

Lydia uses her key to get into Stiles' condo. He glances up from his spot in front of the TV, a smile spreading across his lips because for a moment, just a small one, he forgets.

"What are you doing here?"

"Father and son date night," Lydia tells him, wiggling out of her jacket and kicking off her heels. She sighs happily at the feeling of being free from the confines of her clothes, then walks over to the couch to lean over the back and drop a kiss on Stiles' cheek. "Can I stay for dinner?"

"Sure," replies Stiles. "I was gonna have beer, with a side of more beer."

"You hate beer."

"Sure, but didn't that sound macho?"

"Oh, _very_ ," Lydia promises, walking around to the side of the couch and falling over the armrest, so that she's lying in Stiles' lap. "See? I just swooned."

"And ever so gracefully, I might add."

She snorts a little. He tucks it into the back of his head with all the other ones he's collected, brushing some hair away from her eyelashes.

"Want to order in?" Lydia asks from his lap.

"I'd be okay with that."

"Craving anything?"

"Are _you_?" he asks, poking her in the stomach. She grabs his hand and glares at him. Stiles kisses her forehead.

When he straightens up, the look on her face stings. It is somehow so sweet, somehow so _open_. He doesn't have many more of these in his future— they are fewer and farther in between the more they pretend that nothing is wrong.

Lydia has the prettiest lips he's ever seen. Stiles is positive they're one of the first things about her that he'd noticed when he first met her— they're thick, and full, and as she speaks, he rubs his thumb across the bottom one, watching the way her skin moves while she forms words. She's debating pad thai or sushi, but he has a small fascination with the way her tongue flicks to the roof of her mouth when she says T's, or the way her voice curves downwards at the end of words.

The most brilliant things in the world have come from these lips, and he has enough images of them in his head to last a lifetime, if he needs them to. He has images of them with freshly painted red lipstick; fading pink smothered around his mouth; no makeup at all as he brushes her wet hair.

"You don't have an opinion on this at all, do you?" Lydia sighs. "Could you at least tell me when you're getting lost in your own head so that I don't waste my incredible pro-con lists?"

"If I knew I was getting lost in my head, I'd be able to pull myself out of it long enough to actually pay attention," he points out. "And order whatever you want. I'll eat anything as long as it has zero nutritional value."

She covers her mouth with her hand as she tips her head back and laughs. He takes the time to notice the parenthesis at her mouth that he hopes he has helped deepen, and the dimples on her cheeks that she had passed down to her son.

The smile reaches her eyes, warming them. And Stiles just gets lost in it; in her. In the curve of her eyebrows, the tilt of her head when she gets impatient with him, the way her shirt has ridden up her side. He slides his hand under her shirt and rubs his thumb lightly across the skin on her stomach. Lydia's eyes flutter closed, and she stops laughing.

"Stiles," she says hoarsely.

He doesn't reply. He doesn't know how to say that he already misses her so terribly much. It's a hole in side of him, leaving him open and wounded and he's not trying to cover it because he hasn't been brave enough to even attempt to figure out how to.

"Order whatever takes the longest to get here," he suggests, voice low.

And she's still here, for now, so he gets to keep loving her. He gets to keep loving her even after she's _gone_ , but right now… right now he can show her.

Lydia quirks an eyebrow, looking surprised as Stiles leans down to kiss her softly on the lips. It feels experimental, which it hasn't in a long time. He kisses her slowly, instead of the usual eager ardor that they share together.

Sitting up and straddling him, Lydia kisses him back just as searchingly. His hands fly to her hair, stroking it, and it feels like he's comforting her. It feels, to Stiles, like an apology. He wonders if she knows what he's apologizing for. If she even would want to hear it, if she does know.

His hands sneak up the back of her shirt, resting on her smooth skin, and she whimpers as she kisses him, trailing her hand down from his cheek to his heartbeat, underneath his t-shirt.

"Take me to bed, Stiles," she says, and there's something aching about it. It's not a request. He nods and they tumble into his dark bedroom, illuminated only by the orange streetlamps outside of Stiles' window.

She strips him of his shirt and kisses his chest, all the way down to the trail of hair that vanishes into the top of his jeans. Her hands slide back up with her as she moves to kiss him again, not seeming to be able to get enough of his lips.

It moves in a whir of flashing moments that Stiles will hold onto for the rest of his life. Lydia's hair thrown over her shoulder as she tugs off her bra. Her fingernails scraping against his skin the first time he touches her where she's warm for him. His lips nudging along her collarbone, reverent in the way his breaths splay out over the soft skin and jagged edges of Lydia Martin.

The gasp on her lips when she slides onto him is so quiet, but it reverberates through him as if her heavy breath is the only thing he's ever had inside of his head. Their sweat slicked skin slides together as they move, and not for the first time, Stiles gets to listen to Lydia's undoing as he slides deeper inside of her, building something new with her.

Being with her like this feels like it is the way his heart was always meant to beat.

She litters kisses across his shoulders, scrapes her nails up and down his back, gives and gives and _gives_. And it throbs through him, the solemn way she gives to him. The way it feels sacred when she lets out one long, lingering moan as he hits the right spot and she has to drop her head to his shoulder, hiding.

He doesn't let her. He lifts her up to look at him, to share, because this is the least alone he has ever felt, in this moment. And this, right here, is just where he's supposed to be. This is who he is supposed to be with.

Lydia comes around him, his heart clenching with her, and he can't stop, he can't lose himself yet. He clings onto the moment desperately, everything too fast and too much and not enough— and Stiles doesn't know what was _ever_ enough at this point, or if anything ever could be again. Her hands come up to cradle his jaw, and he blinks back the welling in his eyes when they meet hers, yellow brought out by the lights that are outside of his bedroom.

She sees the look on his face and hides his face in her sweat-slicked chest, wrapping her arms more firmly around his body, pulling him as close as he can be.

He shakes as he comes, hoping that the trembling will distract her from the wetness pooling at his eyes when she tilts his face up to scrutinize it carefully.

Stiles doesn't know what she sees, but she releases a long breath and pulls him closer. And here, held against the best home he's ever known, Stiles doesn't know how he's ever going to bring himself to let her escape.

* * *

 

"I can't believe I've never brought you here before."

He says it like it's nothing, but Lydia catches the forced casualness of his tone and reaches over to put her hand on his knee where it jostles underneath the wheel of his car. They're pulled over, staring at the house, and he knows Lydia's noticed the fact that there isn't a car parked in the driveway. But she doesn't say anything about it.

"It's okay," she says, shrugging lightly. "We've been busy."

"Yeah," agrees Stiles, exhaling shakily. "I guess?"

They sit in silence for a few more moments before Stiles offers her one decisive nod and unbuckles his seatbelt, slipping out of the car. Lydia follows suit, sliding her hand into his as they walk up the driveway and approach the house in which he grew up. He helps her up the front porch, to the door, and unlocks it with one of the keys on his keyring, which makes Lydia smile.

She takes one tentative step into the house, eyes searching the front hall as Stiles gropes around for the lightswitch. It's light enough outside that they can see, but the sun is settling lower in the sky, leaving most of the house covered in dusk, like it fades the older Stiles gets.

Sometimes he thinks that his best memories of this house come from the home videos that his mother took. The ones that he only watches when he feels like every piece of himself is lost. The ones he only digs out of the cabinet in the living room when he knows that his dad isn't anywhere near.

His dad. Who is at at work right now, which Stiles knows very well.

It doesn't sit right with him that his father might never meet his soulmate, but there's also another part of Stiles that can't fathom sharing her with him now. Not now, when everything is about to fall to shit. And Stiles is going to be so, so ashamed, once it truly sets in that he spent so much time doing something that nobody in his life could be proud of.

It had been terribly isolating, but as Lydia's fingers slide along the banister of the house Stiles grew up in, he doesn't feel like he regrets it. He feels, for the first time, like the pieces of their lives are finally settling exactly where they were supposed to go.

"The scar on your knee?" Lydia asks, pointing to a long scrape on the wall.

Stiles grins.

"Nope. That one's Scott."

She smiles.

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. The scar on my knee is from my bedroom, actually."

Lydia quirks an eyebrow, putting one foot on the staircase.

"Well, come on, then."

He lightly tangles their fingers and allows her to pull him up the stairs, walking down the carpeted hallway until they reach a faded grey door.

"Right here," he says, kicking it with his foot, and Lydia offers him a smile before wrapping her fingers carefully around the knob and turning it. The door swings open, revealing a bedroom that looks almost the same as it had the day Stiles had left to move in with Scott. There are greyish bed covers that are neatly made, illuminated by half-open blinds. The walls are _covered_ in posters. Lydia walks in, eyes hungrily consuming the sight of his walls. She walks up to the All Time Low poster and laughs to herself, then glances over at the bright pink Spite poster long enough to roll her eyes at it.

"Participation trophies?" she guesses, glancing over at his dresser, and Stiles' mouth drops open in indignence.

"You didn't even _look_."

"That's because I'm pretty sure you would have bragged about winning a _real_ trophy within the first fifty minutes of knowing me," she says, picking up the trophy and checking for the 'participation' lettering before she wiggles it victoriously.

"Participation trophies _are_ real trophies," Stiles argues as she sets it back down on the dresser and then plops over to his bed to sit down on it.

"So. Knee scar?"

"Oh, right. I was making out with my high school girlfriend and we just… rolled right off the bed. She was fine. I am forever scarred."

"Is that why you won't roll me whenever I ask to be rolled?"

"Sexual spinning is nothing to sneeze about," Stiles says, mock seriously. "I'm _protecting_ you."

"I can protect myself," she says, standing up after a few bounces on his bed. He snags her by the waist, pulling her into his side. She goes willingly, pressing her nose against his neck. "We could just lock ourselves in here."

"Never leave?"

Lydia nods against him. But he slowly twines their fingers together, one by one, and pulls her back down the hallway, towards the stairs that lead back downstairs. He shows her the kitchen, where he'd first learned to cook. He sits her at the table and tells her the last lingering details of his childhood that he had been keeping to himself. He brings her into the family room and shows her the bookshelf, where his dad still has all of the books that Stiles liked as a kid— there's very few. He'd never been patient enough to sit down and read a whole book unless he got _captivated_ by it.

He tells Lydia that, his hands framing her face, and says "captivated" one more time before kissing her tenderly on the lips. Her cheeks rouge, and he considers today a victory.

They make their way into the backyard, the grass brushing their ankles as Stiles pulls Lydia towards the giant swing that he and Scott used to sit on and do their homework. Allison had helped them string fairy lights up around the trees in Stiles' backyard, so he flicks them on, throwing Lydia's face into warm, soft light as she sits on the cushioned swing and begins rocking back and forth.

Stiles spreads the baby book across both of their laps and allows Lydia to flip through even the pages with bath-time pictures on them, her head on his shoulder as they both gently rock the swing back and forth. Eventually, she closes the book and sighs contently, closing her eyes.

"This was good," she says faintly. "Thank you."

 _I'm gonna miss you_ , he wants to say. But he doesn't. Instead, he focuses on what he's doing this for.

"What was Andrew like as a baby?"

She doesn't flinch, which surprises him, for some reason. Maybe Andrew had simply already invaded their space without Stiles even realizing it. Or maybe he's always there for Lydia, and Stiles just hadn't been afforded that luxury before because Andrew, as much as he is Lydia's, is decidedly not Stiles'.

Which is entirely the problem.

"He was the fussiest baby of all time," Lydia tells him, her voice musical as it shifts into being with the chirping of the crickets. "Always crying. Always needing attention. Basically, just like his parents." It sounds like a well rehearsed joke, one she's made many times. Stiles fights back bile. "He called croutons 'guns' and we didn't get why. He walked really, really early. He learned to read quickly. He always wants to dress like his dad."

"And he's into penguins."

"Penguins and _space_ ," Lydia says fondly. "We sit together and we read books about the stars, and books about mythology… he and Jackson have softball, and they'll have lacrosse one day. And Andrew and I have space."

"I used to play lacrosse," Stiles says quietly.

"Oh, I know," Lydia teases. "I have an image of your senior year lacrosse picture _right_ up here," she informs him, tapping her head. He kisses her hair.

"Jackson's gonna be a good teacher," he says.

The fact that he believes it's true just makes him feel emptier.

* * *

 

"Scott, fucking _move over_."

"Nope," Scott says, thumb skidding to the side on the right stick on his controller. "You're gonna have to _make_ me."

"God fucking _damn it_ ," Stiles bursts out, shoving his elbow into Scott's side. "You have absolutely no respect for your elders."

"I'm older than you," replies Scott calmly.

"Only in age!" protests Stiles.

There's a small, quiet knock on the door, and Stiles jams his finger against the pause button before he groans loudly and stretches, standing up to get the door.

"It's too soon for the pizza, right?" Scott says, frowning down at his watch.

"Definitely."

He's not actually surprised to see Lydia at the door, the rain pouring behind her as a strained, apologetic smile plays at her lips. She's wearing a raincoat that's belted around her middle, and her hair is wet and plastered to her face. She seems harried.

"Hi, I'm sorry. I thought you were going to be at Scott and Allison's actually. I just needed to grab… some shoes I left here. And a dress. I need them."

She doesn't ramble much, usually. It creates a pit in his stomach, thinking about why she's rambling like this.

"No problem," Stiles says, a little awkwardly, swinging the door wider. She walks in without kissing him. "Allison has some sort of pregnancy related headache, so she kicked Scott out of the house."

"Oh!" Lydia says, her voice a little too light to be convincing. "Is the baby here?"

"He's with my mom tonight."

Scott gets off of the couch, going over to greet Lydia. Her face brightens when she sees him.

"Scott!"

"Hey," he says warmly. And it should help, thinking about how much Scott likes Lydia. About how much she grew on him. But nothing helps anymore. Nothing stops him from feeling utterly, completely shattered. "Lydia. How's… work?"

"Work is good," she says, her fingers tightening around the empty bag that she's carrying. "I recently got funded by a university, actually. So I'm actually going to be moving into an actual lab, instead of doing all of my work from home. And I'll have people working underneath me, which is _really_ exciting."

Stiles' eyes widen.

"You didn't tell me that."

She shrugs.

"I forgot."

But it feels purposeful, and horrible, and it hurts so much that he feels like he's just been knocked over.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks repetitively.

Her smile freezes on her face.

"I just forgot, Stiles," she replies, almost speaking through her teeth.

Scott's eyes swivel back and forth between the two of them.

"And, um, Andrew!" he says, cutting in. "Is Andrew doing well?"

"Yes," Lydia says, more stiffly than before, her eyes slowly drifting away from Stiles' face. "Thank you for asking."

"Your stuff," says Stiles, voice disengaged. He runs his finger along a loose seam at the top of the couch, pulling at it. "You came to get your stuff."

"I did."

She vanishes into his bedroom with her bag, flicking on the light. Scott remains frozen and unmoving as Lydia drifts around the room, grabbing things and putting them in the bag. Stiles continues to pick at the same thread.

They stay like that, completely silent, for two minutes until Lydia emerges from his bedroom again. She looks at both of them, her eyes skidding back and forth, and for some reason, it pops into Stiles' head— the fact that she doesn't have anybody to call and talk about this when it's all over.

His hand tightens into a fist at his side.

"Would you like to stay for pizza?" Scott asks politely.

"No," Lydia says, shaking her head. "That's okay. I should be going, actually."

Her eyes dart over to Stiles, but he doesn't say anything.

"Well," Scott says, voice still an artificially sweetened variation of 'happy,' "it was really great to see you tonight."

"Yes! You too!" echoes Lydia, too quickly. She hesitates for a moment, then rushes forward, throwing her arms around Scott and pulling him into a tight hug. He stares at Stiles, bewildered, over Lydia's shoulder. "Bye, Scott," she says, just loud enough for Stiles to pick up on it, then pecks him on the cheek before she pulls back and straightens her coat. "Sorry if I got you wet."

"No problem," he replies easily, still seeming befuddled.

"I'll see you?" Lydia says to Stiles on her way to the door.

"Yeah," he murmurs to her, snatching her hand and squeezing it. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Lydia agrees. She smiles at him, seeming pained, then ducks out the door almost as quickly as she'd arrived.

Scott turns to Stiles as soon as the door is shut, his eyes reminding Stiles of a kicked puppy.

"What was _that_?" he asks.

Stiles shrugs tensely, going back to the couch and pouring himself another small measure of scotch.

"I dunno."

He makes to unpause the game, but Scott knocks the controller out of his hand in a rare fit of aggression.

"Stiles. _Talk to me_."

He licks his upper lip, shaking his head.

"I can't."

" _Stiles_."

There's a long stretch of silence before Stiles cringes and closes his eyes, listening to his own heavy breaths.

"Say 'I told you so.'"

"What?"

"Tell me 'I told you so.' Say it. You _did_. You told me it wasn't enough. I didn't believe you."

"No, Stiles."

"SAY IT, SCOTT!" he roars. "Fucking _say it_! Tell me that I'm… I'm _selfish_ , that I ruined Lydia's life, that I ruined _my_ life, that I deserve to be alone. Say you told me so because you _did,_ you did tell me, and I didn't _listen_ and now everything, every little bit and piece of this, is all my fucking _fault_!"

"Stiles, I—"

"I need you to say it."

He's quiet. Then, in a voice so low Stiles wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't listening, Scott says, "I told you."

Stiles nods, tightening his lips before he lets a loud, animalistic, in-human sounding bellow fall from his mouth. He hauls his scotch glass against the wall and watches it shatter against it, then fall to the floor.

Scott looks from the wall to Stiles, his eyes heartbroken. The amber liquid slowly drips from the wall to the floor, settling into the carpet.

Stiles hopes it leaves a stain.

* * *

 

When Stiles gets home, Lydia is sitting cross-legged on his bed, wrapped up in a light pink dress with his blue flannel over it. It's odd, because he usually sees her wearing his flannels with nothing else on underneath it. And usually, it appears to so naturally fit on her body. But right now it dwarfs her, and looks much more like a costume than it ever has before

"You look good in that," he says, gesturing towards the outfit with his chin as he kicks off his shoes and crawls onto the bed with her, kissing her hello on the cheek. Lydia sucks in a breath when he doesn't go for her mouth, and he realizes too late that he'd made the mistake.

"I brought you coffee," she tells him, reaching over to the bedside table to grab the to-go cup for him. He takes a sip of the too-sugary liquid, smacking his lips happily because she got his order right and there is nothing better than that; nothing better than someone knowing little things about you that aren't important.

"Thanks," he says, kissing her lightly on the lips. When he pulls away, Lydia is staring at him. "What?"

"When are you going to do this?"

He takes another sip, swirling the coffee around the cup.

"What?"

"When are you going to end it?"

His heart just… stops. Mid thump, it slams itself against the sharper edges of his chest and remains there, bleeding out all of the pieces that he had clumsily chunked together in an effort to keep himself from breaking too much.

"Lydia."

"I know you're going to," she says, stubbornly meeting his eyes. "And I want to know why you're taking so long."

Stiles shrugs, helpless.

"I'm taking so long because I'm _happy_ with you."

"No. You're not."

He looks down at the coffee in his hand, the one from the coffee shop where he'd gotten his first impression of his soulmate.

Stiles sets the coffee down and reaches across the bed to stroke her cheek. Lydia turns away, and his hand slides uselessly to her shoulder.

"Whatever happens," he begins, slowly and clearly, "none of it is because I don't love you. _None_ of it is because I don't want to be with you."

She leans in, pressing her forehead against his.

"So… why?" It's so quiet, he doesn't even know if she actually voices the last word. But he sees it move across her lips, and it makes tears begin to prickle in his eyes. This is it. This is what he has been putting off for so long, he hasn't even been rehearsing it.

"You sat on the floor of your kitchen and told me about how your parents being torn apart hurt you," he says quietly. "And I watched my dad's sense of self shred to tatters after my mom died, and that ruined me, Lydia. It changed me. I can't… I can't be responsible for someone else's undoing. This world is _shit_ , it's a hole, and he'll get fucked over eventually— everybody does— but I… I looked at him and—"

"Nothing's hurt him yet," Lydia says quietly.

"Exactly," Stiles says. "Yeah. Exactly." He smiles weakly. "He still loves penguins."

Her eyes are filling with tears as she looks at him, but her face doesn't crumble or break. It's the strongest he's ever seen her, and in the end, that's what Stiles hopes he's given her. The ability to face this moment and not be afraid of it.

Because Stiles? He's terrified.

"And… and that's just _it_?" Lydia says, a little fiercely. "You're not letting me make a choice. You're choosing for me."

That's the part that he feels terrible about. In a way, he can feel the awfulness of it all creeping into his bones, settling there fearfully. But there's another part of him that realizes that giving her up is the most selfless thing he's ever done, and he doesn't even know where it's coming from. He doesn't know why he'd picked this moment, this exact moment, to not choose himself first.

Maybe it's because he's always loved the idea of somebody else in this world walking around with Lydia's DNA. And Andrew is that person, even if he's not Stiles' person.

There's nothing to lose with honesty, so he tells Lydia all of this, pouring it out of himself while she strokes his hand and continues to fight back tears. After he's done, they sit in silence for a long time, simply looking at each other. There's a soft ray of light stretched across Lydia's eyes, leaking in from the mostly-closed blinds. Stiles is captivated by her eyes. Glued to them.

"I'll make you a deal though," he says, speaking to the yellow flecks in her irises.

"A deal?" Lydia asks, frowning deeply. He smoothes out the wrinkles with his thumbs, unable to stand the hurt that he is inflicting upon her.

"If you… if you still want me when Andrew is out of the house, when he's off in college… you can have me. I'll wait for you."

She raises her eyebrows skeptically, like he hadn't seen the flicker of hope in her eyes when he'd said that.

"You're not going to wait for me."

"I'd never spend my life with somebody who I don't love as much as I love you. I'd never do that." One of the tears that had been threatening to spill over finally does. She swipes at it angrily, missing the next one that falls. He follows its path with his eyes; watches it get lost in her skin just like he has done a thousand times. "So you can always know that there's something waiting for you, if… if this isn't what you want."

"That's so _long_ Stiles," she mumbles. He buttons one of the buttons on the flannel.

"Yeah," he agrees, heart throbbing. "But in the grand scheme of life? That's, what, twelve years? That's _nothing_."

She lets out a small laugh at the absurdity. He kisses her cheek, tasting the salt of her tears.

"I don't want to spend my life pretending," Lydia whispers, wrapping her hand around his neck before he can pull away. She stares at him with intent. "I did that already. And then I met you and all of it just… stopped."

"But you're not pretending." She looks over at him in disbelief. "No, listen to me. I couldn't… I couldn't _bear_ to leave you somewhere that you weren't happy. But we both know you love Jackson. Maybe it's not the same, but you _do_ love him. I was making up worlds in my head that weren't real, because I wasn't listening to you properly. But Jackson… he's not the monster that I built him up into. As much as it pains me to say it." His lids flutter slightly closed as the truth of what he's about to say settles into him, and he feels peaceful for the first time. "You're going to be okay."

She's squeezing her hands into fists, trying to keep them from shaking. He kisses the fists, feeling like his world is in in his hands; like he's pressing his lips against the most important thing he's ever held.

"Are _you_?"

This time, he can't look at her.

"I don't know." Because he _doesn't_ know. He doesn't know how not think about her, he doesn't know how to not text her every day, he doesn't know how to go on with his life without her in it. "I'm not sure how to be without you, honestly."

"I'm going to miss you so _much_ ," she admits, and the words sting against his skin, making him feel raw and unsettled.

"I'm going to miss you too."

She's crying now, and he is too— there's tears smarting against his cheek, hot and insistent and he hasn't cried like this in forever but he is losing something that matters so momentously. He knows that this moment changes the course of everything, and he doesn't know what to do except cry with her.

"You have to go back to work," Lydia says eventually, rubbing at her cheek. "Which is probably for the best."

"Why?"

"Because… because I'm crying. And I don't need anybody seeing me cry."

He kisses her on the lips, slow and deep and searching. He kisses her to make it last a small lifetime; through awkward middle school years, through first heartbreaks, through driving lessons and sweaty summer nights and proms and graduation. He kisses her for the last time because he's doing this for someone else's story, and in a few minutes he is going to be walking away from his galaxy.

"You shouldn't care if people see you cry. Especially you."

"Why?"

"Because… because I think you look really beautiful when you cry."

She touches his face, trailing her fingers across his cheekbones one final time before she nods and closes her eyes.

"I love you," she says, squeezing them shut harder.

"I love you too," he reminds her raspingly.

He slides off of the bed, leaving her wrapped up in his comforter and in the flannel that he knows she'll take home with her.

It seems like a lifetime ago that he was all alone, wishing on a soulmark.

* * *

" _199\. For to wish to forget how much you loved someone— and then, to actually forget— can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart. I have heard that this pain can be converted, as it were, by accepting 'the fundamental impermanence of all things.' This acceptance bewilders me: sometimes it seems an act of will; at others, of surrender. Often I feel myself to be rocking between them (seasickness.)"_

* * *

 

Allison drops the magazine into his lap one day when he's having a tea party with Tori.

"I thought you might like to see this," she says with a knowing look in her eye— one that Stiles _hates_ , by the way, because just because Allison McCall knows everything, doesn't mean he needs to accept that.

She walks away, brushing a tender hand across her older daughter's head as she vanishes into the kitchen.

Stiles doesn't look at the magazine until he's home later that night. He's lying in bed in his pajamas, reading stuff on his phone, when it suddenly occurs to him that Allison had handed him something to look at before he had gotten distracted by invisible tea and very real croissants. He rolls out of bed, flicks on the lights, and stumbles down the stairs of his house, yawning as he goes.

The magazine is sitting on the side table by the front door, seemingly innocuous as Stiles picks it up and inspects it with suspicious eyes. It's the kind of magazine you might find at a doctor's office— about medicine, he thinks, but more on the light reading side. He opens the inside cover, looking for a sticky note that will tell him what he's supposed to be looking for, but there's nothing. He wanders into the kitchen, frowning at the magazine, and absentmindedly pours himself a glass of water before he begins sifting quickly through the pages, searching for whatever had jumped out at Allison.

When he finds it, he understands why she hadn't written a note.

Lydia needs no explanation, no introduction, no preface.

There's a small picture of her in the top corner of the magazine, in what he recognizes to be her kitchen at home. Her eyes are just as vivid as he remembers, her hair a little blonder than he's expecting, and there's a small smirk on red lips that are slightly more vibrant than the smile is.

She looks good. Beautiful. Not the same, but that's okay. He'd been expecting that, even though he hadn't really been expecting anything, in a lot of ways.

And yet, he's probably been picturing this moment for years now, in a way. He's been picturing this moment since he left his condo with the faintly bitter taste of coffee in his mouth, refusing to let himself look back.

The article is about Lydia's research. More specifically, it is about the enormous award she is to receive for her research; one that comes with more money, a bigger team, and an office. The author writes that 'Dr. Lydia Whittemore is the unsung hero of thousands of lives, soon to be millions,' and he feels knocked over at that idea— at the feathery piece of lightness that it frees inside of him.

She did it. She became exactly who she was supposed to be.

Stiles doesn't sleep that night, tossing and turning in his bed as he thinks about what to do. He wants to tell her how incredible she is, how _proud_ of her he is. How amazed and awed and everything in between because Lydia is saving people's lives and she had only needed herself to do it.

He would sleep through the workday, but at this point he spends most of his day barking orders at people anyways, so it actually feels good to have people onto whom he can unload his energy. It's not that he's feeling angry or aggressive. It's more that his fingers are itchy to dial the number that he still knows by heart after all of this time, and he needs to be distracted.

But would she even want to hear from him? It's been years. And although they had ended their relationship on good terms, time has a way of changing stories, shifting them into something so much uglier or prettier. Stiles is almost afraid of how their time together has manifested inside of Lydia's brilliant brain.

It's also very possible that he is desperate to know.

There's several days of fingers skating effortlessly across the trackpad of his phone. There's several days of reading and rereading the article in the magazine, his eyes hungrily consuming her picture. There's several days of researching her company on the internet; eyes weary and baggy at work the next day because he had fallen asleep as the sun had come up, lost in the work that Lydia has been doing in her life.

It cumulates in a Sunday afternoon at the kitchen table, staring out at the big window that reveals his backyard bathed in golden afternoon light. It looks like the flickering fireplace that Stiles can sometimes still feel the heat of, licking at his skin in the most pleasant of memories, and that's what causes him to finally take a long sip of water before dialing Lydia's number and pressing the send button.

His heart is hammering in his mouth as the line rings too many times. He's certain it's about to go to voicemail, and then he gets to feel absolutely awful about himself, trying to think of what Lydia's going to think when she sees the missed call flashing across her screen. Or maybe she'd ignored it on purpose, and that's why he's sitting here without feeling in his hands and feet. Or maybe—

"Hello?"

The questioning voice that crackles across the other line nearly makes Stiles exhaled in relief, but he's too busy trying not to choke on his own spit as he tries not to float all the way up to the ceiling just at hearing her voice. Her _voice_.

"Uh, _hi_ ," he says, his own voice deeper than normal, like it always gets when he's making grown-up phone calls. "This is Stiles. Stiles… Stilinski."

"I know." She sounds breathier than usual. "Hi, Stiles."

"Hi." They sit in silence for a moment. They breathe. "Um, so I saw this article about you in a magazine the other day. And I just wanted to say, you know, congratulations. I'm just… really fuckin' impressed, Lydia. Seems like you've been doing some amazing shit and… yeah. I just wanted to say congrats. I mean, which is clear because I literally already said that. That was the second time. But, you know, that was the point. The whole point of this phone call. So. Yup."

She laughs, a little bit nervously, Stiles notes, and it feels good. He settles a little bit more, knowing that this isn't the easiest thing for her either.

"Thank you," she says sweetly. "Um, it was a group effort."

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be modest. They would have blown the lab up without you."

"Maybe," says Lydia, being modest, which is stupid because didn't he just tell her not to do that? But she sounds like she's smiling, so Stiles keeps going.

"No. I mean, maybe they wouldn't have ruined the _whole_ project, but it would have taken them a hell of a lot longer." His voice gets softer. "It would have taken them longer to start saving lives, Lydia."

"Okay," she concedes. "So maybe I contributed a little bit."

He laughs awkwardly, running his hand through his hair.

"And that award ceremony. Damn. You're getting fancier the older you get."

"Pretty soon I will be wearing ballgowns to every meal," she says dryly.

"Of course. As one does."

More silence. He really should have thought of better things to say. Next time he naively calls her out of the blue after years of no communication, he should make flashcards. That seems like a very Lydia thing to do.

"Well," she says briskly. "Thank you for calling. It was a pleasure speaking with you."

"Yeah!" he says eagerly. "Uh, you too."

Neither of them hang up.

"Okay," Lydia whispers.

And still, she's on the line.

He is suddenly desperate to not lose this one opportunity to hear her speak. It's been so long. He hadn't realized how hungry he was for it, but he knows that he's going to gnaw at this moment just as much as he does the other ones that he has in his arsenal. And he's grateful that there's such a collection. In hindsight, he is grateful for every moment.

They had enough moments to fill a lifetime. It still isn't sufficient. Nothing ever will be.

"So… um… how's Andrew?" Stiles asks, a last ditch attempt to keep her on for another minute.

"Good!" says Lydia, sounding surprised. "He's thirteen now."

"No way."

"He went to his first school dance a few weeks ago, actually, and he took one of his classmates as a date. It was very cute."

"Bet you produced a major ladies' man."

"Oh, yes, we like to think that he's quite the charmer."

"I don't doubt it."

Lydia laughs a little.

"He doesn't like penguins anymore."

"No? What is it now?"

"Lacrosse." The tone of voice she's using would imply that she's rolling her eyes. "He's obsessed. It's all he ever does, all he ever thinks about. He's obsessed with getting good enough to play division one on a scholarship for…" She hesitates. "For college."

His chest aches for her, an eternally gaping wound that time hasn't been able to fill.

"Bit soon to be thinking about college," he says meekly. "Isn't it?"

"It's five years away," replies Lydia quietly. "Not so long. Um—" He hears the hesitation in her voice and waits patiently for her to ask. "How are you, Stiles?"

"I'm good," he says. "I have a house now."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Didn't feel like living in that small place anymore."

"I understand that."

"And I have a dog. A big one."

"What's his name?"

"Chewie, because he is my faithful forever friend."

"Do you two have a life bond?"

His jaw drops.

"Um, why are you doing this to me?"

Lydia laughs heartily. He pictures her throwing her head back; pictures the lines that crinkle around her eyes.

"I gave Andrew the Star Wars box set for his tenth birthday and he's been pretty obsessed ever since."

"That's awesome."

He's totally, completely sincere. It doesn't sting, because this is Lydia's _kid_ and Lydia's kid likes Star Wars and Lydia is Stiles' soulmate and that's what matters.

"So that's it?" asks Lydia, faking nonchalance. "That's all your news?"

Stiles knows what she's asking. He decides to put her out of her misery.

"I'm not with anyone."

He can hear the smile in her voice.

"You're not."

"I'm not."

"So…"

He whispers it, because it still feels conspiratorial.

"I'm still in if you are."

She swallows.

"I am," she says, quickly but quietly. "Always."

Always. He likes the sound of that. There's nothing scary about 'always' when it's coming from Lydia's mouth.

"Always," he echoes, testing it out. "Always."

So he hasn't lost her. He hasn't lost her yet.

"Stiles, I—" she begins, but she cuts off, distracted by someone speaking to her on the other line. The voices are muffled— Stiles wonders if Lydia's hand is over the speaker— before she comes back onto the line. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

She sounds regretful.

"Okay. It was, um, great talking to you."

"Great talking to you too!" replies Lydia eagerly.

How do you hang up a phone call with someone who you're most likely not going to speak with for another five years?

"Seeya later, alligator," says Stiles.

He's in the middle of wondering which hard surface he's about to bash his head against when Lydia speaks, voice playful.

"For a while, soulmate," she says.

Stiles hopes she hears the soft "I love you" that he offers her before she clicks off the line. He likes to think that she does.

* * *

 

" _231\. The most I can say is that this time, I learned my lesson. I stopped hoping._

_232\. Perhaps, in time, I will also stop missing you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Well. I am really horrified (and excited) to say that this is the longest Stydia fic I have ever written. Which kinda seems crazy, because I didn’t think anything would ever beat Move Like You’re Stolen in length! But here we are. An affair fic. Good job, Rachel. Your priorities are clearly straight. 
> 
> Anyhoo. I have some people to thank! Thank you to Ashley (reyskywalkerrsolo) for all of her beta reading, and to Rachel (madgrad2011) for catching up so that she could be my second beta reader for this chapter. Ashley, I love your silly, beautiful comments on the fics. And Rachel, your understanding of Lydia is one of the many things I admire and adore about you. This fic needed your stamp of approval before I posted it. I’m so glad I got it. 
> 
> Also want to shout out to Jade (wellsjahasghost) for listening to me freak the fuck out about writing this fic. I don’t know why this chapter was so hard to write, but it was like pulling teeth— I hate writing angst— so _thank you_ for listening to me complain about it over and over and over again.
> 
> A final wave towards Kay (stilesbanshee) for telling me that the fandom needed an affair fic, lol. Your enthusiasm and kindness and encouragement is the reason I felt like it was okay to enjoy writing this, even though my morals were like “STOP!” 
> 
> So, after more than 40k of angst, I’m going to go cleanse myself of this tragedy. This fic was incredibly challenging, heartbreaking, and fun to write. Now, it’s time for some hella fluff. 
> 
> I would love it if you would choose to leave a comment and let me know what you think! I would appreciate it so, so, so much. (I read them like 80 times over with the biggest grin on my face because I’m a geek.) 
> 
> Have a great day!


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